“I’m more interested in useful than interesting,” I said and went inside.
Sure enough, Pepper was still crouched on the table by the aquarium. Maybe it was like television for cats. He was male; he’d probably be there for hours. I smiled to myself, went and used the bathroom and came back through the living room. Laura was snoring softly. I smiled again.
When I got back to the porch, Milo was leaning forward and making notes on a pad. “I got useful for you,” he said. He smiled up at me.
“Yeah?”
“In the early days of the Colony, adultery was a capital offense. But rather than execute offenders, they usually banned the guilty from the Colony, or….” Milo stopped and just grinned.
“Come on Milo.” I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.
“Or made them wear a badge on their sleeve with the letters AD printed in red.”
Chapter 27
“Anna Fuller cheated? But she just got married.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner,” Milo replied. “We studied the shit out of The Scarlett Letter in tenth grade.”
I hadn’t thought of it either. I’d assumed the ‘A’ and the ‘D’ were the first initials for two words, not the beginning of one. Hester Prynne only had to wear an ‘A.’
“Whether she really was an adulterer or not,” Milo said, “the killer obviously thinks she was. And he thinks Carolyn Bishop was a murderer.”
“So what’s the triangle brand mean?” I pulled my computer onto my lap and searched for ‘triangle symbol.’ “What else was a capital offense in the Colony? Which book did you find that in?” I was skimming the Internet article titles that came up.
“This is the one called The Times of Their Lives,” Milo said. “I told you it was interesting.”
“Interesting is a bonus,” I said. “Useful is golden.”
“Okay, here it is.” He read from the book. “‘The 1636 codification of laws of Plymouth Colony incorporated laws already in existence in the colony since its inception, but which had been enforced by the governor on a discretionary basis up—’”
“Get on with it.”
“Okay, okay. The list of ‘capital offenses liable to death were, in order: treason, willful murder, conversing with the devil by way of witchcraft, willful burning of ships or houses, sodomy, rape, buggery and adultery.’”
“Nothing I’m finding here goes with that.”
“The triangle was upside down,” Milo said.
“Right!”
I searched ‘upside down triangle symbol.’ In just a few seconds I had it.
“Here we go,” I said. “The Nazis used an upside down triangle to mark certain groups in the concentration camps. Especially gay people.” I looked up at Milo. “It’s been adopted as a symbol for lesbians.”
Milo flipped through a few pages. “Sodomy, or Homosexuality is the name of the section.” He read a bit to himself. “Here. A case in 1637. Two men were found guilty of ‘spilling their seed one upon the other.’ Blah, blah…. ‘John Alexander was therefore censured by the Court to be severely whipped and burnt in the shoulder with a hot iron.’”
“So Reggie Cummins was a lesbian. Maybe. Probably. Carolyn Bishop was a murderer, at least in the killer’s mind. And Anna Fuller was either an adulterer, or for some reason the killer thought she was. Either way, she was hanged for it.”
“So what’s the snake?” Milo asked.
I looked at my scribbled list of capital offenses. “I’d say treason. Is there anything else in the book that talks about treason?”
Milo checked the index. “Nope.”
“I guess when Dennis tells us more about her, we can see if it fits,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure we’ve cracked the code.”
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. “We still don’t know who he is,” I said. “But we’re starting to understand him. If we can figure out how he’s finding his victims, we can work back from that.”
“Well, we’ve got between now and tomorrow night to do it.”
“When did she have time to study?” I said.
Dennis and Turk were seated on my couch, Milo was in my reading chair and I was at my desk. We’d met back at my house around four o’clock, after Grady got home from lobstering. Laura was still sleeping on the couch when Milo, Pepper and I left.
I read from the list of student organizations Margot Roberts had belonged to at Johnson & Wales. “AWARE Alliance, Habitat for Humanity, PRIDE Alliance, Silent Witness Program and the Quidditch Club.”
“What the hell’s the Quidditch Club?” asked Dennis.
“That be where witches and wizards fly ‘round on they magic broomsticks, an the Seeker try n catch the Golden Snitch,” said Turk.
Dennis looked at Turk like he had two heads. “Where do you get this shit?” he asked.
“It’s a Harry Potter thing,” I said, “but all these other clubs are serious.”
Everyone turned back to me. “Silent Witness promotes awareness of women killed by domestic violence. AWARE supports human rights, PRIDE Alliance supports gay rights. She also volunteered at Planned Parenthood and wrote editorials for the school paper. And she worked four nights a week at her job and had a 3.8 grade average.” When I was in college I’d joined one club. Once. By my sophomore year, I’d quit. Maybe if there’d been a Hacker’s Club I would have been more motivated.
“Well, her activism got her killed, looks like,” said Dennis. “The question is, by who?”
“Whom,” said Turk. Dennis stared at him. “It be proper to say ‘by whom’, not by who.”
“Fuck you, Turk,” said Dennis.
I tried not to giggle and stared down at the photos on my desk. My amusement quickly faded. Margot Roberts was not only an amazing student; she’d been a beautiful young woman. She was only twenty-two years old. Based on the state of the crime scene, Roberts fought back with everything she had. But in the end, she was found hanging in the middle of the store, bound and gagged just like the others.
I plugged my laptop into the printer and sent my lists to print. I gave them to Dennis. “These are all of the places where I think you want extra patrols. And this is the list of people in the area that we know are descended from John Billington. But there are obviously a lot more than that.” Dennis nodded and stared at the lists.
“I’m trying to figure out where he finds them,” I said. “I went back to searching all of the online dating sites this afternoon. There are several devoted to gays and also a few for swingers. Reggie Cummins wasn’t ‘out,’ but there are sites for people in the closet. And if Anna Fuller was sleeping around, maybe that’s how he found her too. I can’t believe how many hits I got for ‘swingers in Boston.’ I’ll keep searching, but I think you’re going to have to ask the families some…uncomfortable questions.”
“How he know they the spawn of Billington?” asked Turk.
I nodded. “It took me hours to confirm that Carolyn Bishop was in fact related. He’s got access to the Mayflower Society databases somehow. And he knows how to use genealogy web sites like Ancestor.com too.”
“So he make a list of people—”
“Women,” I said.
“So he make a list of women come from John Billington an he decide which ones he don like,” said Turk. “Took some time. Some plannin’.”
“He cares about Plymouth’s roots, its history,” said Milo. “He doesn’t approve of the way America has abandoned its religious foundations. He thinks the evil started here, with John Billington. He wants to end it here. Margot Roberts promoted several lifestyle choices that were capital crimes in the Colony. Homosexuality. Abortion, or murder as he sees it. That’s why she got the snake. It’s a symbol of treason.” Milo didn’t say much in these meetings, but when he did, he was usually spot on.
“Smit’s church is patriarchal. Women are inferior,” I said. I wasn’t giving up on my Sight Ministries theory just yet. Charles Smit had really gotten to me. “But Liz Sm
it works and they haven’t got any kids,” I added. “That still bugs me.”
“Get me a list of church members,” Dennis said, “before you work more on the gay and swinger sites.”
Finally, a little respect. I beamed at Dennis. “You got it.”
He sighed again and stood. “It’s a goddamn shame we don’t have the death penalty.”
“Accidents happen,” said Turk. His usual sarcastic tone was notably absent.
Dennis shook his head. “Let’s go. We gotta meet with the task force.” He looked over at me. “Nice work, Nance.”
I was still grinning when Turk’s Lincoln pulled out of the driveway.
Chapter 28
I swirled my wine and took a sip. It was nearly nine. Milo was doing his Tasmanian Devil thing in the kitchen and I was sitting at the breakfast bar watching. God that man could move. He was barefoot and his jeans hung down just a little below his hips; a pair of plaid boxer shorts peeked out. His back muscles rippled under his T-shirt as he pulled pans from the cabinets and set them on the burners. On top of all that, whatever he was concocting smelled divine. Bonus.
While I’d hacked the Sight Ministries Intranet in search of a membership list and cried over Margot Roberts’ Facebook postings, he’d gone and bought food and some excellent wine. Came in a glass bottle and everything. I figured the least I could do was drink some.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I asked.
“Just taught myself,” he said. “You got any curry?”
I looked at him. “You mean like the chicken dish down at Namaste?”
“Namaste’s closed. No, I mean like the yellow powdered spice used to make curries.”
“It’s closed? Damn. That place was good. Spices are up there,” I replied, lifting my wine glass in the general direction of the pantry.
He opened the door. “You got salt, pepper corns—but no grinder that I’ve been able to find—and….” He pulled a little round container out. “Sesame seeds.” He looked at me and shook his head. “Don’t you ever cook?”
“I’m really quite fond of cold cereal,” I said.
Still shaking his head, he put some oil in a pan and dumped the sesame seeds in. “Change of plan. I’ll do a stir fry. You got soy sauce at least?”
I wrinkled up my brow. “I think there’re some little packets in the butter compartment in the fridge.” I’d ordered Chinese a few weeks back, after Mrs. Jansen paid me a hundred dollars for raking her leaves.
He found the packets of soy sauce, dumped them in a bowl and added some sugar. Then he removed the chicken breasts he’d sautéed from the pan and added some water. “Just have to make the broth,” he mumbled. He let the liquid simmer and then added the soy sauce and sugar mixture. “Cornstarch?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Can you make that from cornflakes?”
“Hopeless,” he said, as he opened every cupboard. He pulled some boxes out and put them on the counter, then got some garlic out of his grocery bag and began to chop. I decided not to tell him that most of those boxes, whatever they were, dated back to before Dad died. Maybe before Mom died. Milo stopped chopping, whirled around to shake the sesame seed pan, then went back to chopping.
“So, Milo.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why’d you quit school?” The wine was loosening me up. And besides, who quits Harvard?
He stopped chopping for a second, knife poised above the minced garlic.
“Just didn’t like it anymore.”
I waited. Finally, I said, “But Milo, why? I mean, you were at Harvard. You could be making big money now. Probably on Wall Street or some shit like that. Instead you’re lobstering and playing detective with me.” I took another gulp of wine.
He looked at me. “Why’d you quit the NSA?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said with a half smile.
“It—I just—I didn’t agree with our mission, I guess.” I raised my eyes and smiled. “That’s all I can tell you or I’d have to shoot you. Your turn.”
He sighed. “Similar, I guess. I didn’t like who I was becoming. Who I was for a while.”
I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. After another minute, I said, “Do you like who you are now?”
He stirred the garlic into his sauce and stirred some five-year-old cornstarch into a cup of water and then added it too. “Yeah, I think so. Yes.”
There was obviously more to the story, but I decided to let it go. He would tell me when he was ready. And there really wasn’t more that I could say about my resignation from the NSA, otherwise known as ‘No Such Agency.’ If only I’d had ‘No Such Job.’
I drank some more wine. “Me too,” I said after a while.
“You too what?” He was adding the sliced chicken breasts back to the sauce and chopping peppers and measuring rice into boiling water. It was like he had six arms.
“I like who you are now.”
He stopped for a second, looked me in the eye and smiled. “Good.”
“This is really good,” I said. I took another big bite of stir fry and chewed. “Let’s go to the Mayflower Society Library tomorrow morning. Dennis said they have a log book. Let’s see who went there over the past few months. Compare that with the Sight Ministries membership. Talk to the Historian General.”
“You’re really convinced that church has something to do with it.” Milo poured a little more wine for himself. I’d already consumed about half the bottle.
“No, I’m not convinced. But you heard the guy. Everything he preaches goes along with what the killer seems to believe. Either way, there might be a name that stands out.”
“Didn’t Dennis and Turk already review it?”
“Yeah, after Carolyn Bishop, but they haven’t read months’ worth of Facebook comments and emails like I have. Just seeing a name might trigger something.”
Milo nodded.
“Anyway, I just want to see what’s there. I never really paid attention before. To the Pilgrims and all that.” No one does touristy stuff in their own home town, and I was as guilty as the next person. “Sounds like you could be a member if you wanted, Mr. Cooke.”
“You too,” Milo said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Name like Warren? In Plymouth since forever? Safe to say you’re probably a descendant, too.”
“Huh.” I thought about that. “I guess you’re right. Mrs. Trimble said that too, and she knows everything.”
He laughed. “She’s definitely sharp.”
“As a tack,” I said.
We ate some more in silence. It was a comfortable silence; neither one of us seemed to feel the need to keep talking. Unfortunately, my brain filled the void with all of the pictures and life I’d found in Margot Roberts’ Facebook pages.
“Margot Roberts’ sister is going to have a baby any day now,” I said after a while. Tears welled in my eyes. Okay, so maybe half a bottle of wine isn’t the best idea when you’re exhausted and emotional. “Now every year she’ll be planning that kid’s birthday party and she’ll be reminded of what happened to her little sister.”
Milo took my hand. “Hey.”
I shook my head; tears were running down my cheeks now. “Who am I kidding? Just because I can hack into databases doesn’t mean I can solve crimes. Women are being killed. The FBI and that whole fricking task force haven’t figured it out. Like I’m going to? Stupid.”
“Look at me,” Milo said. He put his hand under my chin and lifted it. Then he wiped my tears away and caressed my hair. “We’ve already given Dennis a lot of good stuff. Stuff that you figured out. Before the FBI, with all its analysts and resources. They didn’t know Anna Fuller was a swinger. We figured that out. And you found her on that site in about, what, thirty minutes this afternoon?”
I nodded.
“Now they have another way to look for the guy. Now they know one more thing. And we’ll keep giving them one more thing and one more thing until
it comes together. Doesn’t matter if you figure it out yourself, or if you provide the clue that helps them figure it out.”
I leaned back, pulling away from Milo. God his touch felt nice. “Sorry,” I said. I blew my nose in my napkin.
“For what? Being human?” Milo shook his head at me. “I’m not.”
He stood, picked up his dishes and carried them into the kitchen, and I did the same. By mutual, unspoken agreement, we rinsed them and left them stacked on the counter. I got Milo his pillow and blankets and put them on the couch. Then I grabbed Pepper out of his tree and headed up the stairs. Halfway up I paused and watched Milo get a glass of water. Sweet dreams Milo, I thought, and continued up the stairs.
Chapter 29
Indian summer turned to fall with a vengeance while we slept. I awoke early to the drone of heavy rain on the roof and the branches of my small maple tree swiping the siding. I lay there for a moment listening, then rose and peered out the window. The tide was about half and the water was choppy; white caps danced across the dark grey surface. There would be no young families or martini-swilling seniors on the beach today. In the distance, over Duxbury, a huge lightning flash appeared, followed seconds later by a sharp clap of thunder. The wind was blowing rain in on my T-shirt and I forced the window down.
I took a quick shower and pulled on jeans and a turtleneck. The outside temperature had fallen by at least twenty degrees overnight. I put on thick socks and hiking boots, grabbed my hoodie and went downstairs.
Milo had a small fire going in the fireplace. The man was a fricking saint. I filled my coffee mug and went and sat in my chair by the fire. He was reading another one of the books we’d purchased yesterday.
Finally he looked up at me.
“Nice fire,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
“Any more useful stuff?” I nodded toward the book.
“Useful, no. Lots of interesting, but as you said, that’s not what we’re after.”
I nodded and sipped my coffee. A really loud clap of thunder made us both jump.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 16
