by JP Ratto
The waitress brought my sandwich and drink. The nausea that accompanied the knob on my head passed. Not realizing how hungry I was, I ate like I was going to the chair.
A man walked up to the table of diners next to mine and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. The reaction from those seated was immediate—they all looked stunned. “A dead body?” “Oh my God, where?” “An accident, I’m sure.”
They all talked at once until the bearer of the bad news said, “I hear they think she was murdered.”
The skin at my neck prickled and a shiver spread through my body. What are the chances? Again, I thought, what lengths would someone go to stop me from finding Karen Martin? I paid the check and drove to the trailhead—I knew the reason for the yellow tape.
***
I spotted a man with a Sheriff’s badge, who turned out to be Chief Deputy Steve Brimmer.
Sidling through the crowd still gathered at the trail entrance, I stood next to the deputy with my ID ready to show. After telling everyone they needed to move on, he made a half turn and almost walked into me. Startled, he pulled up short, tipped his hat back, and looked up at me. I removed my cap and sunglasses. He waved me away.
“Sir, excuse me, we need to clear this area. We have a crime scene up the road.”
“Yes, I see that.” I held out my PI license. “I’m looking for a young woman, seventeen years of age. Her name is Karen Martin.”
Chief Deputy Brimmer narrowed his eyes.
“You need to see the sheriff.”
“Can you direct me to him?”
“Her. Sheriff Grange is a woman.” Brimmer scanned the parking lot. “That your Rover?”
I grinned, thinking I must’ve stuck out like a sore thumb in my pressed jeans and my Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. I thought the t-shirt and cap made up for them.
“Yes.” I nodded at the car marked “Sheriff.” “Shall I follow you?”
He looked at his car, at my Rover and then at me.
“I’ll ride with you. One minute.”
Brimmer gave me his back and pulled out his phone. I assumed he called the sheriff to give her a heads up.
“Let’s go.” He extended his arm. I strode toward the SUV and Brimmer followed.
***
The Broome Sheriff’s Office occupied another saltbox-style building. I parked in one of the designated spots in front and entered after the deputy. A reception desk and chairs constituted a waiting area. Through an iron-gated doorway behind the desk, I could see a couple of holding cells. Brimmer pointed to a staircase. The sheriff was upstairs.
Two desks, occupied by a young man and a woman, stood to one side of an open space at the top. A seating area lay on the other. Beyond the seats were two glass-fronted offices. We passed an empty office, which the name on the door indicated belonged to Deputy Brimmer. In the other, a woman with deep red hair pulled back from her face sat at her desk immersed in some reading. Brimmer held his arm out and told me to wait. She looked up when the deputy knocked on the door, entered, and closed it behind him.
Sheriff Grange glanced back and forth from Brimmer to me as the deputy spoke. When done, he turned to open the door. I could feel the Sheriff’s suspicious glare, which did not alter even after the introduction.
“Sheriff Grange, this is Lucas Holt, a PI from New York—or so his ID says. He’s looking for Karen Martin.”
I wasn’t sure why he repeated what he had undoubtedly told the Sheriff, but her eyes widened as if she heard it for the first time. She rose from her seat, tall and formidable, and stretched out her hand.
“Mr. Holt. I’m Madeline Grange. Have a seat.”
I sat. She remained standing for a few minutes, while Steve Brimmer filled her in on how he had managed to clear the trailhead of spectators. I used the time to assess Madeline Grange and couldn’t help noticing her well-formed figure. Dressed conservatively in law-enforcement tan slacks, belted at her slim waist, and shirt tucked and buttoned to her long neck, she exuded authority. At least that’s what I told myself she was exuding. The update over, the sheriff sat down. Deputy Brimmer nodded to me on his way out.
Sheriff Grange resumed her glare and asked to see my ID. I obliged. She didn’t hand it back before she spoke.
“Mr. Holt, why are you looking for Karen Martin?”
I had to think twice about giving an agent of the law the white lie concerning an inheritance. “Karen Martin is adopted and her birth mother is trying to locate her.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. The Martins lived in Vermont before they moved here. Karen is seventeen—she holds a Vermont driver’s license. Her father was a ski instructor in Vermont. Her mother was a homemaker.”
“I imagine the adoption was closed and the birth mother doesn’t know who the adoptive parents are or where they live. What led you to Broome?”
“The adoption was closed in that my client didn’t know where the child was or have any part in her upbringing. But as part of the arrangement, she received updates about her daughter and a photo now and then.”
“Unusual arrangement.” Madeline Grange relaxed back in her chair, hands in her lap, still holding my ID.
“Yes. In any case, she stopped receiving updates two years ago. She’s lost her own family in an accident and is anxious to find her only living biological child.”
“While that’s a sad story, you realize the young woman you seek is still a minor. Even if I had any information on her whereabouts, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I traced her to a home on Adams Street. A neighbor confirmed she lives there. No one seems to be home.”
Sheriff Grange sat straight up. “She lives in Broome?”
“Yes, twenty-six Adams Street.”
The sheriff stood and left her office. I followed to the doorway.
“Steve, take a couple of the reserves and check out twenty-six Adams. Mr. Holt says Karen Martin lives there.”
Deputy Brimmer nodded. “Sure thing. I hate having to deliver bad news.”
“Steve, we don’t have a positive ID yet.”
“Right, sorry, Maddie.” Brimmer spoke to the sheriff, but his eyes were on me.
Madeline Grange turned. “Mr. Holt, I’m sorry I can’t discuss Karen Martin. This is an ongoing investigation.”
“An investigation into what?”
“Into the death of a young woman found near Moose Horn Trail. That’s all I can say.”
Sheriff Grange rushed past me. I inhaled the fresh earthy scent of woods and citrus. I called to her with a little more strain in my voice than I intended.
“Sheriff.”
Madeline Grange twisted her head toward me.
“Really, Mr. Holt, I’m very busy.”
“Just one more thing.”
Her shoulders shrank with exasperation, and she pushed one errant strand of hair off her face. “What is it?”
I smiled and pointed to the hand at her side still clutching my ID.
“Could I have my wallet back?”
Chapter 28
Left standing alone in the sheriff’s office, I recapped the information gleaned from meeting Sheriff Grange. I knew there was a strong possibility the dead girl was Karen Martin. A possibility because the body hadn’t been positively identified. The sheriff would need to locate the Martins for that. I wondered where they were. Had something happened to them too? My job was to find Karen. Alive. I dreaded having to tell Janet Maxwell her daughter was dead, and I hadn’t planned to investigate her death. Before I got too ahead of myself, I needed to get all the facts.
Outside on the street, I noticed the cluster of people had turned away from the trailhead and gravitated to the sheriff’s office. Murder in Broome would be the main event for a long time. I meandered through the crowd, picking out a gentleman in tan chinos, oxford shirt, and a straw fedora. He looked like a professor on summer break. I moved next to him and started a conversation.
“Morning. Terrible what happened
, eh?”
Professor, who wore metal-framed glasses, smoothed his short gray mustache with his fingers, and nodded.
“Terrible. Puts a real damper on things. Hope they find out what happened soon.”
He looked me over but didn’t ask who I was. Instead, I questioned him.
“Do you live in Broome?”
“Yes, I do. Forty years. Don’t recall any murders.”
“I don’t believe the sheriff has ruled it a murder yet.”
“True enough. Rumors are flying, though. Heard from the wife of a deputy, who brought the body over to Dr. Clancy’s morgue, there was evidence of a struggle.”
“Where is the morgue?”
“Doc Clancy lives over on Chambers. Biggest house in Broome. Sits on a hill—can’t miss it. Clancys were a family of morticians here for a long time. It used to be a mortuary. Until Alex became a doctor. Now it’s the medical examiner’s office.”
I was about to drive to Chambers when a sheriff’s car plowed down the street, honking for the crowd to get out of the way. I could see Deputy Brimmer at the wheel. Two people sat in the back. He turned into a parking spot, and exited the car.
Another car pulled next to him. Four men, who I surmised were deputized assistants, jumped out and took over crowd control. Brimmer opened a backseat door and extended his arm to help an attractive, petite woman out of the sheriff’s car. A man slipped out the other side. Tall, with dark brown hair, flecked with gray, and a trim, athletic build, he walked around the car and took hold of the woman’s arm. I could see the grave look on their faces.
They had to be Daniel and Sarah Martin.
***
Knowing police procedures when it came to dead bodies, I decided to drive over to Chambers. I didn’t know the particulars, such as how long the body lay in the woods or the condition of the corpse. But physical identification by next of kin is the fastest way to prove identity. It wouldn’t be long before the sheriff escorted the Martins to the medical examiner’s office. It was an overwhelming and dreadful task, but necessary. I sympathized with the Martins.
Chambers, a wide, tree-lined street, intersected the main street in the middle of Broome’s busy town square. The road veered from the public area and wound up a hill, populated with thick woodlands, to a lone structure. A large clapboard and stone house, in mild disrepair, stood at the top. The ornate roof, with what I believe architects call a widows walk, gave it a haunted house appearance—apropos for a mortuary…or morgue.
I passed the house, turned around, and parked under a large maple. My position afforded shade and a good vantage point to see who came and went. While I waited, I pulled out the Rand file and scanned the crime scene photos. I remembered thinking at the time something wasn’t right. The way she died and the physical evidence didn’t ring completely true with a crime of passion—which is what Scully and I thought it was.
Sheila Rand died from a fatal stab wound to the stomach, but we never found the murder weapon. Since we couldn’t ascertain if anything was missing from the victim’s home, we assumed the perpetrator either took the weapon with him or brought his own.
Rand’s evening occupation, her attendance at political soirees, and the eyewitness report, all pointed to Grayson or someone of his ilk. Hence, we settled on passion. I honestly couldn’t see Grayson planning and executing a murder. If it was premeditated, he would have had someone else do it—and in a much more professional manner. This murder was sloppy.
Well, sloppy in its execution—the fact they got away with it, in my opinion, was sheer luck. Shuffling through the photos, I paused at the close-up of Rand’s head and torso. There were multiple wounds on her chest, arms, and, of course, the one big hole in her stomach. Except for a small cut on Rand’s chin and another on one ear, her face had been untouched by the knife. The defensive wounds on her arms could have been due to the killer’s attempt to slash his victim’s face as well. The missing hair would indicate the assailant, who was taller than Rand, had grabbed a clump of hair to hold the head steady. I laid the file aside when a car rose over the hill.
As expected, the sheriff’s car pulled in front of Dr. Clancy’s home. Brimmer emerged from the driver’s seat and glanced to where I was parked. He didn’t appear to recognize my Rover or he had other things on his mind. Sheriff Grange exited the passenger side. She looked my way too and paused. I could almost feel that same steady glare she had leveled at me in her office.
Madeline Grange, as far as I knew, didn’t know the type of vehicle I drove. She turned away and spoke to Brimmer who looked once again in my direction. This time I detected a frown on the officer’s face.
The thought I’d irritated the sheriff in some way made me chuckle. I watched as she led Daniel and Sarah Martin up the stone steps toward the house where they would be asked to identify the body.
A smirk left my face, replaced by anger when someone pounded on my car window. So intent on Sheriff Grange’s movements, I hadn’t seen Brimmer come up beside my vehicle. I rolled down the window.
“Take it easy there, chief, these windows are expensive to replace.”
“Yeah, like that’s a concern of yours.” Brimmer’s frown revealed the lack of a sense of humor and a mild dislike for a PI from the Big Apple. I remained silent and waited for him to tell me my offense.
“You can’t park here. Move on, Mr. Holt.”
“Really? I don’t see any signs to that effect.”
“It’s an unwritten law. There’s no loitering on our streets.”
“Parking your car is loitering?”
“Parking and just sitting in it is.” Brimmer clenched his jaw and kept glancing between Dr. Clancy’s house and me. The deputy appeared anxious to go inside to where events more important than my loitering were unfolding.
I thought I had tortured Brimmer long enough. I’d swing back later and speak to the medical examiner. I wanted to get another look at the Martins. Daniel Martin at least fit the physical description of a ski instructor—unlike his imposter. I hoped to speak with them at some point. Before I could relieve the suffering deputy of his painful duty by pulling away, Sheriff Grange and the Martins came out of the house. And looked less distraught than I’d have expected.
Brimmer noticed too. “That’s strange. Holt, move the car. I’ve got to go.” The deputy took off toward Grange and the Martins. After some brief words, they piled into the car. Sheriff Grange hesitated before sinking down to the front passenger seat, looked in my direction, and shook her head no.
Chapter 29
Following the sheriff’s car to see where they brought the Martins was my first choice, but I didn’t want to push my luck. After Sheriff Grange so graciously indicated the body in the morgue was not Karen Martin, I owed her some space. She was back to square one. We both were.
I still had to locate Karen Martin.
Enough time had passed for the sheriff to bring the Martins back to her office or to drop them at home. My guess was they were home. I also had every reason to believe there would be a couple of sheriff’s deputies keeping them company.
I drove to Adams Street. To my surprise, the only other car besides the red sedan was another red sedan in the driveway. A late model Toyota with Pennsylvania plates.
Striding up the walk, I noticed someone pull aside a window curtain and let it drop. The front door swung open and Daniel Martin stepped out. He met me halfway. His hair was a mess, his face lined with worry, and his eyes glossed with unshed tears. He must have assumed I was one of the reserve deputies, there to give him news.
“Did you find her?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Oh God, no!”
I had to catch him before he sunk to the ground.
“No, no, Mr. Martin. I’m not here about your daughter.”
Daniel Martin’s eyes bore into me, and I could feel the heat of his anger at the misrepresentation of my presence at his house.
“I mean, I am here about Karen. But I’m not here to tell
you anything has happened to her. I’m not with the sheriff’s office.”
He yanked his arms free, raked his fingers through his hair, and straightened to his full height.
“So, who the hell are you, and what do you want?”
“My name is Lucas Holt.” I pulled out my ID. “I’ve been hired to find your daughter.”
“A PI? I don’t understand. Who hired you?”
“Mr. Martin, perhaps I could come inside and speak with you and your wife.”
Daniel Martin didn’t respond. He turned and walked back to his house. I followed hoping he wouldn’t slam the door in my face. He didn’t, leaving it wide open for me to enter. I stepped into the living room and closed the door behind me.
You could tell a lot about people by the way they lived. The tidy room and its overstuffed furniture evoked a comfortable order. Shoes lined up like soldiers on a mat by the door. Magazines stacked neatly under a side table. Shelves held books, arranged according to height. Framed photos crowded together on the white fireplace mantle, a console table, and an upright piano—all were of the same girl at various stages of life. The Martins enjoyed an organized life and Karen was at the center.
A woman sat on the sofa. She looked as harried as her husband did. I pushed aside memories of my own torment, a skill I’d honed since my investigative work focused almost exclusively on missing children or kidnapped victims.
“Sarah, this is Mr. Holt. He’s a private investigator. He says he’s been hired to find Karen.”
Mrs. Martin gave me a questioning look. Daniel Martin sat next to his wife and pointed to a chair. I sat down.
“Mr. and Mrs. Martin, you’ve had a very trying day. Am I to understand the body you viewed at the morgue was not Karen?” I looked at Sarah Martin. “I’m sorry you had to go through the process.”
“My wife didn’t see the body,” Daniel said.
