Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1

by Barton, Sara M.

  The local sheriff’s department arrived on the heels of the fire brigade. Sheriff Thompson was a no-nonsense piece of “I’ll kick your sorry excuse for an ass!” if I ever saw one. His deputy chewed on a Stim-U-Dent toothpick, trying to look cool behind a pair of eighties mirrored sunglasses. The pair did a lot of ‘hrumphing” around, full of bluster and self-importance, telling everyone to stand back from the crime scene and then contaminating the hell out of it by trampling through.

  “Ah, should you be doing that?” I boldly asked. “You already know the girl is dead. Wouldn’t the prudent thing be to wait for the forensics team?”

  “Are you one of those armchair detectives, Miss?’

  “Miz,” I corrected him. “And no, I’m not. But I am aware that you just put your hands on all the surfaces that either the girl or the killer touched. If it’s not a crime scene, you probably obscured her fingerprints. If it is a crime scene, you may have just let a killer off the hook.”

  “So, you’re a full-blown expert on crime, are you?” the sheriff snarled, his face inches from mine.

  “Well, now that we’ve established that I understand more about forensic procedures than you do, why don’t we have you step away?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me how to do my job?” I could feel the little flecks of spit hit my cheeks as the sheriff got up close and personal in the doorway of the small structure.

  You might think that Ben would have stepped in by now, to calm me down, to talk reason with the sheriff, but instead, my husband had disappeared behind the cabana. That was my signal to keep the distraction going as long as I could, and I put forth a valiant effort.

  “How many murder scenes have you investigated? Suicide scenes? Accidental deaths?” One of the reasons Uncle Edward had picked this place was because the town was barely touched by crime, so I felt pretty safe in suggesting that the Buford Pusser wannabe hadn’t handled more than a handful of deaths from natural or other causes. “I want to know how and why she died, so you just get out of there this instant and let the professionals handle the forensics!”

  I huffed and I puffed every bit as hard as the sheriff, despite his threats to throw me in jail and toss away the key. In fact, our shouting match took over as the main event, and the tour boat captain had trouble finding passengers ready to depart. Bud made sure no one else entered the cabana, stationing a couple of his people on all four corners of the cabana, ostensibly to treat any smoldering embers. The sheriff was about to grab me when Bud Solange stepped between us. He put a solid hand on the irate law enforcement man’s shoulder, holding him back.

  “She’s right, Lou. Arson investigators want the scene left undisturbed, body or no body, and that means I’ve got to secure the cabana properly. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that we go by the book on this.”

  “You want to back her up, Bud?” The sheriff’s eyes got very tiny in his beefy face, and I knew he planned on extracting revenge for his public humiliation. His large frame filled the doorway as he glared menacingly. Since this was quickly spiraling out of control, I decided it was a case of in for a penny, in for a pound. I dove right back in.

  “Do not make me call the Vermont Attorney General, Sheriff,” I warned him. “I will report your bad law enforcement conduct and your contamination of the scene of a death. I suggest you follow proper procedures for handling this scene or by the time I’m done, your office will be shut down while you are investigated for obstructing justice!”

  “You don’t even know who the Attorney General is for Vermont,” he hissed, “let alone anyone in that office!”

  “David Symthe. S-y-m-t-h-e. For your information, I hike with Amy Lickinbach, his assistant for criminal prosecutions. She’s also a national skeet shooting champion, so you probably will find she’s not going to take any crap from you either.”

  “You rich people think you can just move to Vermont and take over, don’t you? You come barging in here, with your big fancy cars and your fat wallets, pushing the little guys right off of the road. Well, you think again, Missy! This is my jurisdiction and we will do things my way!”

  “This is your jurisdiction and you will do things according to state and federal laws, or you will no longer be sheriff!”

  “Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to, young lady?”

  “I think I’m talking to the guy who had better get the hell out of my cabana!” As if to emphasize the point, a two-by-four brace, burned to a crisp, dropped down from the ceiling and smacked the sheriff in the shoulder before hitting the ground. The stunned man stood there, looking down at the offending piece of wood, until Bud Solange grabbed him and physically pulled him out of the little hut. By the time a state police investigator arrived a short time later, Ben still hadn’t returned.

  “Matthew Perkins,” announced a young man in a green golf shirt and jeans, flashing his credentials. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” said the sheriff.

  “Anybody touch anything?” At that, the whole crowd groaned.

  “My people put out the fire, but didn’t touch anything,” said Bud, fire helmet in hand. “Two went in with extinguishers, the others worked from the outside. A couple of guys from Captain Joe’s helped out.”

  “Okay. My people should be here any minute. We’re going to set up a perimeter, so let’s get people moved back. We can start getting some information, Sheriff. I’ll need the names, addresses, and photo identification of everyone present on the scene when the fire was discovered. Once we’ve got everyone processed, people can leave.”

  “Photo identification?” The sheriff looked at Matthew Perkins like he dropped in from the planet Romulus.

  “Check their driver’s licenses,” the state investigator told him. “Write down the number of each.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” was the reply.

  “Then you’d better get started, before there’s a mutiny.”

  I glanced around, wondering where my other half had gone, but he was still nowhere to be found. The tour boat captain was getting itchy as he waited on our dock to be cleared for the return trip. The little old ladies had moved their Adirondack chairs further away from the burned ruins of the cabana, still chattering as if it were Intermission. A couple of Vermont state troopers hoofed it to the little beach on foot, lugging their equipment down the path. They were accompanied by Ben. As I took in all the details of the scene, I realized one of the lead actors had vanished. How long would it take for the police to realize Philippe Grapon had exited the stage?

  “Have I missed anyone?” asked a tall, uniformed man with an Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Captain, where’s your last passenger?”

  “He was here just a short time ago,” said the man in charge of the group of tourists. A buzz went around as the passengers searched for Philippe.

  “Maybe he had to, um...go fix the flag, so to speak,” suggested an older man in a bucket hat, a seersucker shirt, and white slacks.

  “Is that another way of saying he had to use the can?” asked a thirty-something woman with a pre-teen by her side.

  “He went up the hill, that way,” said the older gent with the Red Sox cap.

  “He hasn’t come back,” offered the middle-aged woman with the dark glasses and red lips.

  “And you know this because?” the young investigator with the big badge slung around his neck inquired.

  “He suggested we get together for a drink when we get back to the marina. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t skipping out on me.”

  “He’s a guest of our establishment,” Ben announced, stepping forward to offer his hand to Matthew Perkins and explain.

  “Maybe he went up to the house,” I suggested. “We can call Uncle Edward and ask him.”

  Uncle Edward answered on the second ring, listened carefully, and promised to call us back as soon as he searched the main floor and the guest room for the missing man. He was as good as his word. There was n
o sign of the wayward wanderer.

  “How long is Philippe Grapon scheduled to stay at your inn?” Matthew Perkins asked.

  “Bed and breakfast,” I corrected him. “Just for the weekend.”

  “Call me if he shows up. Here’s my card.”

  “Will do,” I replied, thinking about how once again Philippe pulled a fast one on us. This time, it didn’t look like Ben was going to take it in stride. “Any chance we can take off now? We’re expected to pick up a guest at the airport.”

  “Sure. Just one more question. Who is the dead woman in your cabana?”

  Chapter Seven --

  “I’ve never set eyes on her before today,” I was able to admit with total honesty. I left out the part about finding her under the bed in the Ephesus Suite. “Such a shame. What will happen if you can’t identify her?”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll identify her.”

  “But if you can’t, what will happen?” Don’t ask me why, but I persisted. I was worried the poor girl would somehow slip through the cracks, forever disconnected from her real identity, her real family, her real life. She would become a statistic, an unknown body found in the woods on the shores of Lake Champlain, with no one to mourn her.

  “We take samples of her DNA and we list her on the Doe Network, a national website for missing persons.”

  “What will you do with her body, store it until you find her family?”

  The investigator’s eyes narrowed as he studied me. I suddenly thought that he was someone who was often underestimated. Behind that youthful face was a native intelligence that was not easily deceived.

  “If she’s not claimed in about ten days, she gets offered up to the area medical schools for research,” he explained. “If they don’t want the body, and she died of natural causes, she might get cremated. Otherwise, she’s likely to be buried. Why?”

  “She just seems so young, so innocent.” I looked at the cabana, where I could still see the young girl’s body leaning against the wall. “Can my husband and I claim her?”

  “What?” Ben looked slightly stunned. “Hold on there, Bea.”

  “She was someone’s daughter. She deserves a proper burial,” I insisted. “We can’t just ship her off to a medical school as a cadaver. It’s so...so indecent! It’s not like we even know who she is. What if her family turns up later? How do we tell them there’s nothing left to bury, Ben?”

  “And you think we should pay for her funeral?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “We could take up a collection,” said one of the little old ladies, inserting herself into the equation. “The Janie Doe Memorial Fund.”

  “Yes, Elaine. What a wonderful idea,” another of them agreed. “My Jimmy is the vice president at the branch in town. He can set up an account for the fund. We’ll call the Sentinel Gazette and get them to write it up. That should bring in some donations”

  “Well, if you’re going to have your son set up a fund, my son can arrange the service at the First Church,” a third elderly woman decided. “After all, Stewie’s a deacon.”

  “I’d like to be a part of this,” said the man in the Red Sox cap.

  “Me, too,” said another passenger.

  “And me.” One by one, folks joined the movement to bury the dead girl. The tour group waiting on the dock convinced the captain to give them paper and pen, so they could start a mailing list of names of willing contributors. Even some of the firemen wanted in on the plan.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” I sighed, wagging a chastising finger in Ben’s direction. “There are still decent people in this world.”

  “Let’s wait until that fund is established before we throw accolades at the public.”

  “Cynic,” I retorted, brushing away a loose strand of hair from my face. I realized I looked a mess after my foray into concealing the inconvenient body in the cabana. I wondered if part of my need to bury the poor girl was more a result of feeling guilty for treating her corpse so deceitfully than because I am a true humanitarian. Ben always says that when push comes to shove, people save themselves first out of necessity, and then allow themselves to be moral and decent when the going gets easier and the effort seems likely to succeed. In his opinion, very few people are actually willing to throw themselves under a train to save their fellow human beings, although some will consider it, sometimes after the fact and usually with an excuse as to why it was not a viable option after all.

  “Optimist,” he countered, as if that were a bad thing to be.

  “Rogue,” I offered. “Scoundrel.”

  “Opportunist. Survivor. I live to fight another day, my love. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Would you rather be the widow of a dead knight, armor shining brightly, or the wife of a warm, breathing man who lives to adore you?” Ben wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Well?”

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” I replied, using the old vaudeville line.

  “That’s my Bea,” he grinned, kissing my forehead, “as contentious as ever.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ben and I were headed to the airport to pick up Mr. Williams, now arriving. I called the “travel agency” for the confirmation phrase and photo. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I got.

  “Mr. Williams is a woman?”

  “Let’s see,” Ben insisted, taking his eyes off the road as we barreled down I-91 in moderate traffic. “Hmm...not what I was expecting.”

  “Why do you say like that?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “You think she’s hot?”

  Ben cut me off in mid-sentence with a cluck. “Bea, you are missing the point. Mr. Williams is not a guy. If we were deliberately informed he was, it may have been to draw out Philippe and his cohorts.”

  “Oh. And we don’t know who the cohorts are, do we?”

  “Given his penchant for lying and deceiving, it may be an effort on the part of the CIA to determine who Grapon is serving on this mission. It sure as hell isn’t America.”

  “You mean he’s a double agent?” The thought was horrifying, given the dead body in the Ephesus Suite.

  “And then some.”

  “Which means what, that he’s working for three or four different countries?” I thought about that a moment. “But how do you know which one is the real benefactor of his intelligence games?”

  “That’s the trouble. You don’t. If he’s working for the Russians, he could also be helping the Syrians or any of the other folks in the region the Russians are trying to assist. That means he’ll have back-up from several different directions. And if he’s playing the CIA, which I suspect he is, they already doubt him, because ‘Mr. Williams’ is a woman. She may be just a messenger, like the dead girl probably was.”

  “Oh, this always gets so complicated!” I groaned. “Why can’t spies be like normal people?”

  “You can look at this situation two ways, Bea. On the whole, spies are deceitful, lying bastards who take advantage of human weakness to further their ends. Scary and worrisome. On the smaller scale, most spies have specific goals to accomplish and bosses who decide what gets done and where it gets done. If we didn’t have war, we wouldn’t need spies, but as long as despots and dictators are willing to go to extremes, we have to protect governments and people from harm.”

  “Tell that to the poor dead girl in the body bag!” I snapped. “I’m sure it will be great comfort, God rest her soul!”

  “That’s the price of freedom, my love. Ruthless men will do ruthless things to achieve their ruthless goals, even kill a young woman.”

  “I warned you about Philippe, Benedick. I told you he would bring trouble with him.”

  “You did, but there’s a reason the CIA wanted us to let things happen, Bea. If we had chased him away, he would have gone somewhere else to do the dirty deed. Instead, he did it on our turf, and that means the damage can be contained.

  “How does that help us?”

  “The man who stole t
he girl’s body put it in our cabana for a reason, just as he set that fire for a reason. We were being set up by Grapon and his associates. That was no accident Grapon was a passenger on the tour boat.”

  “Or that he disappeared?”

  “Exactly. He probably was trying to leave us holding the bag. Imagine what would have happened if the cabana had burned and with it, the dead body. We’d be under investigation for months. What’s the result of that? No bed and breakfast business for us, at least not a safe haven for spies.”

  “Does that mean the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast is kaput?” The question hung in the air through the long silence that followed. Finally, with a deep sigh, Ben admitted the reality.

  “Possibly. It depends on how fast we can find Grapon and neutralize his ass. And we also have to catch his friends. But I suspect that whoever is providing security to the CIA is using private satellite surveillance and other means to keep an eye on things in Arden Woods. They probably knew that Grapon was betraying us and needed to let things happen.”

  “But that girl died,” I reminded my husband. “How is that fair?”

  “Bea, we still don’t know who she is or what she is,” he told me in a firm, but gentle voice. “And we also don’t know what killed her or why she’s dead. She could have been a part of the plot. She’s probably collateral damage. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

  “It’s not fair,” I decided.

  “Life never is, babe.” Ben reached over and patted me in his effort to console me. I wasn’t having any of it. I still thought the poor dead girl deserved better, and I was damned if I was going to allow a murderer like Philippe Grapon to go free. “We may never know the truth about what happened. It’s possible that this is part of a critical operation overseas. It may have been an effort by a hostile intelligence service to disrupt our efforts in another country. Take Syria, for example. The carnage is horrific, the Russians are backing the Syrian regime, and we’re poised to pitch in to help the rebels. The outcome affects Middle Eastern policy. If the Russians succeed in shoring up Assad, he will reward them for their assistance, and their financial coffers will grow, their influence in the region will grow, and they’ll be sitting pretty. If the rebels win, there will be a change in leadership, new opportunities to shape the new government, and a potential chance to prevent more chaos in the region. Every country with a viable interest is scrambling to find a crack to exploit, Bea. This one girl’s death might be horrible, but if it prevents hundreds more people from being killed, can we really say she died in vain?”