Iris Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  “You know about that?”

  Ian sat back down and put several teaspoons of sugar in his mug.

  “Do you really think I’d let some stranger come into my house, sleep under my roof, and break bread at my table if I hadn’t thoroughly checked her out beforehand? Her story was flimsy and she was obviously scared of something or somebody. I got in touch with the Pinellas County Sheriff and he told me all about it.”

  “He knew?”

  “He lived a few blocks away. He heard the explosion and got there right after it happened. He found her trying to put out the fire with a garden hose. He knew who she was, knew who her husband was. They had all been under surveillance for months. He knew she’d taken the child out of the house and that she wasn’t involved in the drug business.”

  “Did she know he knew?”

  “No,” Ian said. “She thought he believed her story. He knew what would happen to her and the kid if he took them in. He made a judgment call. I probably would have done the same.”

  “And you never talked to her about it.”

  “No need to. I kept a close eye on her but she never made a false move. She’s a good mother to Tommy and a darn hard worker. We may have given her a home but she’s earned everything else she has.”

  “Under the table, of course.”

  “Not exactly,” Ian said. “I include her wages in with Delia’s and then Delia gives her cash. That way I pay the IRS and the Social Security office and no one’s the wiser.”

  “It didn’t bother you to be covering for her all this time?”

  “You have to consider a person’s character in context. That girl may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but she’s got moral fiber, an exemplary work ethic, and a steel backbone. She was under extraordinary pressure and did the right thing by that boy. I don’t regret it for an instant.”

  “I worked for you for six years,” Scott said. “But I didn’t know how hard this job can be.”

  “You’re doin’ fine,” Ian said. “The spirit of the law sometimes comes into conflict with the letter of the law. I prefer to think of law enforcement as more of an art than a science.”

  “There’s a woman claiming to be Miranda’s mother who’s looking for her. She knows she’s here in Rose Hill.”

  “I thought Miranda was an orphan.”

  “This woman is looking for the child she gave up for adoption. She’s dying and wants to meet Miranda and Tommy before she dies.”

  “Probably wouldn’t know there’d been a switch,” Ian said.

  “Probably not.”

  “Well, keep me informed,” Ian said. “If I can help her out I’ll be glad to. Poor, motherless child.”

  Scott told Ian about the feds being in town investigating Mrs. Wells.

  “She’s a piece of work, that one,” Ian said. “No soul in her, if you ask me. If she’s cornered she’ll kill anyone that gets near her. If Ava’s agreed to testify she’ll be in her sites. I don’t want Delia over there in the middle of this, but I’m sure my wife will continue to do as she pleases.”

  “I’m staying at Ava’s until this is over,” Scott said. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  “That’ll get the scanner grannies’ knickers in a twist,” Ian said. “The phone lines will be burning up with that bit of information.”

  “How come you never cracked down on them?” Scott asked.

  “If you want to know something,” Ian said, “or you want something to get known, you couldn’t ask for a better instrument. They’re better than a bullhorn on Rose Hill Avenue.”

  Scott thanked Ian and walked on down Iris Avenue to Pine Mountain Road, and then turned left and walked up to Rose Hill Avenue. From the corner he could see a light on in Maggie’s apartment. He stood there on the corner and watched until it went out. Then he went to Ava’s.

  CHAPTER FOUR - Wednesday

  Malcolm Behr showed up at the station bright and early, as Scott was enjoying the blueberry muffins and thermos of hot coffee Ava had prepared for him that morning. Malcolm was the town’s fire chief and a hairy beast of a man who most people referred to as “Bear.”

  “You got plans this morning?” Malcolm asked him.

  “Nothing that can’t be rearranged,” Scott said. “Why?”

  “Mean Mann just called me. Seems he’s got the Corps of Engineers and a special wildlife agent coming down to break up a beaver dam that’s blocked Raccoon Creek where it empties into the Little Bear; it’s causing some flooding. Mean’s got an abscessed tooth and has to have emergency dental surgery, so he wants me and you to oversee the project.”

  “It must have killed him to call you,” Scott said.

  “I notice he didn’t call you.”

  “He may hate me just marginally more than he hates you. You should be flattered.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Harlan “Mean” Mann worked for District One of the State Division of Natural Resources Law Enforcement and was one of the most thoroughly unpleasant men Scott had ever met. He delighted in catching people hunting or fishing out of season and then torturing them during the time it took the state police to arrive. Mean would not even refer to Hannah, the county domestic animal control officer, by name; he preferred to call her “that female dog catcher” instead. If it were up to Mean, every stray dog or cat would be shot on sight, and there would be no need for an animal control officer.

  “I’ve been hearing about the Fitzpatricks’ latest troubles,” Malcolm said. “I’m guessing the ratio of law enforcement to citizens in Rose Hill is high enough right now that you’re free to go for a look-see.”

  Scott had no doubt the scanner grannies had informed Malcolm that Deputy Frank was in the station, Deputy Skip was patrolling Rose Hill in the station’s only official car, the feds were watching Ava’s bed and breakfast, and the state police were filling up any leftover space.

  “I need to go home and get my waders,” Scott told him.

  “Better bring some dry clothes too,” Malcolm warned him as he left the station. “Once we get above the second dam Cal’s taking us the rest of the way in his boat, so we’re both liable to end up in the river.”

  Scott met Malcolm and Cal Fisher at the bottom of Pine Mountain Road, which ended in the Little Bear River. Cal Fischer was a certified rescue diver and volunteer firefighter. When Scott arrived, Cal greeted him in a friendly manner, but a little nervously as well. During a recent murder investigation it had come to light that Cal sometimes removed the barriers at the bottom of Pine Mountain Road in order to back his boat into the water, and then cross the river with his dog, a shotgun, and a spotlight, to hunt deer out of season.

  The late postmistress Margie knew about this practice, and had threatened to tell Mean, who would have enjoyed getting Cal fired from his day job as security guard at the power plant, as well as dismissed from the volunteer fire brigade. In a lucky twist of fate, Mean had burned the letter without opening it because it had no return address, which to his suspicious mind meant that it was probably from terrorists.

  With Cal’s boat hitched behind his SUV, they drove north from Rose Hill until they reached a river access road above the second dam. Flooding of the Little Bear was controlled by a series of aging stone dams built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression. The dams were losing integrity every year, but the funds to repair them were always sacrificed during the annual state budget cuts.

  “I used to go frog-gigging in Raccoon Creek with my brother Hamish,” Malcolm said as they set off in Cal’s boat. “We once caught the mayor’s wife skinny dipping there with the organist from the Methodist Church.”

  “Peg Machalvie?” Scott asked.

  Cal chuckled.

  “They were both three sheets to the wind, singing ‘Shall We Gather at the River.’ ”

  “Did the mayor ever find out?” Cal asked.

  “Not unless she told him,” Malcolm said. “She never could look me in the eye after that. When my mother died, Peg gave me a fif
ty percent discount on the whole funeral package.”

  Scott shook his head, saying, “I can’t believe that.”

  “No, it happened,” Malcolm said. “Ask Hamish. My only regret about the incident was that it took place before Peg had her boob job.”

  When the men arrived at the mouth of the creek, they were amazed at the size of the beaver dam, which must have been thirty feet wide and rose six feet out of the water. It extended out into the Little Bear far enough that it was catching a lot of debris. The creek had breeched its banks behind the beaver dam, and the low-lying fields on either side were flooded.

  There was a group of men standing on the shore, and Curtis Fitzpatrick had backed his wrecker down to a nearby dock, as close as he could get without taking a chance of sliding into the river. One of the men on shore was dressed in a wet suit, just like Cal had on underneath his parka and coveralls. Cal cut the engine and threw a line to Curtis, who was standing off to one side, looking amused. As soon as they were close enough, Curtis tied up the boat and the three men jumped onto the dock.

  “They’re arguing about the best way to do it,” Curtis told them. “The man in the rubber suit is worried about hurting the beavers and these other guys are worried about the possibility of flash flooding down river once this thing is broken up. The man in the red jacket is the property owner on this side of the river. He plants sorghum in these fields, and he wants his top soil to stay where it is.”

  Scott and Malcolm nodded appreciatively.

  “Are you worried?” Malcolm asked Curtis.

  “Naw,” Curtis said with a wink. “I’m being paid by the hour.”

  The man in the wet suit entered the water and submerged. Cal stood on the shore, holding a line attached to him. He was only down for a minute or so but it was peacefully quiet onshore as everyone paused and watched. Scott saw a disturbance beneath the surface on the other side of the dam and two beavers swam away toward the middle of the river. One of them smacked the water with its tail and the sound echoed off the nearby hills.

  There was a frenzy of movement where the diver had entered the water and he came up thrashing. Scott’s first thought was that he’d been attacked by beavers defending their home. Cal pulled on the line and assisted the man out, and he hurriedly pulled off his breathing apparatus and mask.

  “There’s a dead guy down there,” he said, and then took a few steps across the soggy bank and vomited.

  Cal was the one who got called whenever a drowning victim needed to be recovered, so he calmly shed the clothes he wore over his wet suit, put on his equipment, and gave Malcolm the other end of his line before he waded in. Scott’s reaction to dead bodies was more like the first guy’s, so he was dreading what came back up. Scott checked his cell phone and saw he had no service. He asked Curtis if he could use his wrecker radio to call in and was glad for an excuse to walk away from the action.

  “I never get used to this,” Scott told Malcolm after he finished his call and returned to the bank.

  “Me neither,” Malcolm said.

  Cal came back up with the body of a man. It was obvious from the state of it that it had been through some sort of trauma, either before or after it went in the river. They pulled it onto the bank and rolled it over. Lifeless eyes stared toward the sky and it was plain to see the throat had been slit from ear to ear. The absence of blood or a bad smell helped Scott keep his nausea under control.

  “Time to call Sarah,” Malcolm said to Scott.

  Scott glanced up at Curtis, who was crossing himself.

  “Can I use your radio again?” he asked Curtis.

  Curtis led the way.

  “You recognize him?” Scott asked Curtis, as he climbed into the passenger side of the wrecker cab.

  “Nope,” the older man said. He shook his head, started the engine, and turned the heater way up.

  “He looks a little familiar to me,” Scott said. “But I can’t place him.”

  “I was afraid it was gonna be Brian,” Curtis said, and Scott was taken aback to see the older man wipe his eyes and blow his nose on a big white hankie he took from his back pocket.

  “I’m so sorry for what your family is going through,” Scott told him. “We’re keeping a close eye on Ava and the kids.”

  Curtis nodded and cleared his throat.

  “You do a lot for this family that’s never acknowledged,” he said to Scott. “We appreciate all you do; we just don’t always say.”

  Scott was touched by that, and it helped salve some of the wounded feelings he’d been having since Maggie had banished him from her life. Although everyone in the Fitzpatrick family made a point of still being friendly, he was no longer invited into their homes or kept abreast of the latest family gossip.

  Scott called the county dispatch, thinking that although this was yet another murder in close proximity to Rose Hill, it was far enough outside the city limits that he wouldn’t have to be involved. This was a relief. He’d had enough murder and the subsequent services of county investigator Sarah Albright to last him a lifetime.

  The proverbial tall, dark, and handsome man walked into the bookstore. He was dressed in a black trench coat over a gray suit, white shirt, and dark red tie. He approached Maggie with a wide smile, as if they already knew each other well. Maggie felt a blush creep up into her face, and sighed to herself over her body’s lack of subtlety when she was embarrassed by special attention.

  “Maggie Fitzpatrick?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “Can I help you?”

  He kept smiling at her as if they shared some private secret, and delicious as that prospect was, Maggie also felt some apprehension.

  “I think so,” he said, and handed her his card.

  “James R. Brown, Federal Bureau of Investigations” it read.

  “That’s a really lousy cover name,” Maggie said. “You might as well use John Smith.”

  He kept smiling at her as if she was some dear old friend whose rude comments amused him. His eyes fairly twinkled with good humor.

  “Unfortunately, James Randolph Brown is my real name,” he said. “Although I’m hoping to marry someone with a more interesting last name so I can hyphenate it. Something like ‘Fitzpatrick-Brown.’ Do you think that would help?”

  Maggie was thinking some Aztec god name would be more appropriate for him, something like ‘Hotzytotl.’ The man was seriously dreamy, with cheekbones that made her think there was some Native American ancestry in his background.

  “I’m guessing this is about my brother,” Maggie said.

  “I’m sorry, it is,” the man replied.

  Maggie looked around the bookstore, which had several customers in it.

  “I’m covering someone’s break right now,” she said. “Would you mind to wait until she gets back? We can go to my office.”

  “I never mind to wait in a bookstore,” Agent Brown said with a smile. “That coffee smells good. Can I get you one?”

  “No, thanks,” Maggie said.

  He smiled at her again and Maggie thought he must be an excellent agent; a man that handsome and charming, she thought she might tell anything he wanted to know.

  When Jeanette came back, Maggie told her she had a meeting, and her staff member regarded the agent with appreciation.

  “Publisher’s rep?” the older woman asked.

  “Something like that,” Maggie said.

  “I’d buy anything he’s selling,” Jeanette said.

  The agent was looking through a copy of the latest Rose Hill Sentinel while sipping a latte in the cafe.

  “This is great,” he said, and gestured with his drink.

  “Benjamin is my best barista,” Maggie said. “Can we do this in my office?”

  “Sure,” he said, and brought his latte with him into Maggie’s small, messy office.

  Maggie cleared a chair for him next to her desk and shut the door so they would have some privacy. The man looked around and nodded with approval.

 
“In my wildest retirement fantasies, running a place like this is high on the list.”

  “You’re better off keeping it a fantasy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The profit margin on books is practically nonexistent. I can’t compete with online booksellers or big box prices, so I have to rely on sidelines and touristy stuff. The café does a good business, and the college textbooks are a pain in the behind, but they bring in the students who buy the coffee. Unless you’re independently wealthy or just plain crazy, Agent Brown, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “So, why do you own one?” he asked.

  “It’s genetic,” Maggie said. “This is what Fitzpatricks do. I was working in my parents’ bakery before I was big enough to see over the counter; I stood on a milk crate.”

  “I’ve had croissants from there; they’re delicious.”

  “Please sit down, Agent Brown,” Maggie said.

  “Please, call me Jamie,” he said.

  Jamie took off his overcoat and Maggie hung it on a hook behind the door. He smelled like spicy vanilla aftershave. They sat down and Maggie waited for him to begin. He took out his federal ID and showed it to her.

  “Just so you know I am who I say I am,” he said. “You know why I’m here, obviously. We’re interested in your brother’s disappearance as related to an investigation we’re undertaking, and I’m hoping you’re willing to share what you know.”

  “I’m wondering if I should have a lawyer present.”

  “I’ve already spoken with your brother Sean and your sister-in-law Ava, and if you’d like to call either of them to check me out, I understand completely.”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Jamie. The most important thing in the world to me is my family. I’ll do anything to protect them. My brother Brian has lost the privilege of being called family. If you’ve already talked to Ava and Sean, you know all the reasons why. I don’t know what else I could tell you.”

  “I understand you have a letter,” he said, “from Gabriel Cortez.”