Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour

by Aaron Stander

  “How about the Allen woman?” probed Tyrrell.

  “Nothing yet,” Ray responded.

  “Random event? Some psychopath?”

  “Always a possibility,” said Ray, doubt in his voice.

  “Well, with the Reesma case, keep things tight,” said Tyrrell, using his arms to hoist himself out of the chair. “We don’t want to give some fucking defense lawyer anything to hit us with.” He stooped, picked up his cup, and moved out of the door and down the corridor.

  35

  The next afternoon, Ray drove up the steep hill and parked on the apron of the four-door garage. Alan Quertermous, in a pair of clean, pressed gray coveralls, was stretched out on a creeper, his upper torso under a small, diesel tractor. He slid out from under the machine, using his right hand for shade as he looked up at his visitor. “Getting ready for winter?” Ray asked.

  “Something I’d been planning to get done for weeks,” said Quertermous, getting to his feet. “Time to get the mower deck off and the snow blower on.” Using a red rag, he wiped the grease from his hands and extended his right hand to Ray. “I usually do this earlier, but given the unusually late fall, I’ve kept the mower attached. But it’s time. A little more Indian summer, and then the gales of November will blow down from Canada. We always seem to get clobbered by the first snowstorm. And given my drive… ” Without bothering to complete the sentence, he pointed to the blacktop ribbon that snaked down the hill to the county road. “Wish your county boys would keep that road as clear as I keep this drive.”

  “Much of a job putting that on?” Ray asked.

  “No, damn good engineering on this machine.” Quertermous bent over and retrieved the wrench he had been using. “Got to hand it to Kubota; they know how to make these things. It took three men and a boy to install the snow blower on the last tractor I had. I can put this baby on myself in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “New toy?” asked Ray, pointing to an ATV with a camouflage paint job that stood in the third bay of the garage.

  “I’ve had it about a year.”

  “How does it do in sand?”

  “It’s pretty unstoppable. I’ve been all over the dunes with it, and I’ve never gotten stuck.” He paused. His tone became guarded. “What brings you up here on this beautiful Saturday afternoon?”

  “Yes, the third season is magical, isn’t it,” Ray said. He looked off at the rolling hills, then slowly brought his attention back to Quertermous. “Still some color left—bits of reds and golds mixed in with the conifers. The autumn sun gives it all such a muted effect, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” agreed Quertermous, showing some impatience. “But I don’t think you came up here to share pastoral pleasantries. What business have you with me, sheriff.”

  “I met Furman Gellhorn, Ashleigh’s lawyer, at the memorial service. He wanted an update on how the investigation was coming along. In passing he mentioned that you’ve contacted him regarding the estate.” Ray watched the anger pulse through Quertermous’ body, his face quickly turning crimson.

  “Who I talk to is none of your concern. And Gellhorn’s telling you about this is clearly some sort of ethics violation.” Quertermous waved a wrench in Ray’s face, his fist tightly wrapped around the handle. Ray reached down and plucked the tool from his grasp.

  “I’m interested, Mr. Quertermous,” Ray continued, slowly and calmly, “that you didn’t mention to me that you were related to Ashleigh when I interviewed you.”

  “The topic was never approached, and it wasn’t germane to anything we discussed.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Ray stood and waited, letting his words sink in. “How are you and Ms. Allen related?”

  “We are distant cousins,” Quertermous answered.

  “And why do you think you might have a claim on the estate?”

  “Sheriff, I am a very skilled genealogist. I’ve traced my father’s family back to the days of Richard II, my mother’s to the early eighteenth-century. In recent times our family has not been prolific, and wars and illness have taken their toll. I don’t think there is anyone living who has a better claim than I do. I have been researching this, and I’m fairly certain of my findings. Of course you know she was bastard child; there’s still the chance her good-for-nothing father might appear and try to lay claim to the estate.” Quertermous paused briefly and took a couple of long breaths, trying to control his agitation. “Sheriff, at this point I’m only looking at the possibility of contesting Ashleigh’s will. I’ve made no final decision.”

  “It seems you’ve been talking to a number of lawyers in recent weeks,” Ray observed. “You’ve filed a damage suit against your broker… ”

  “Does the whole world know my private business?” Quertermous yelled, his relative calm sliding into rage.

  “Sir, when you file a suit, it’s public information. Here’s the article from this morning’s Record-Eagle.” Ray pulled a clipping from his shirt pocket and handed it to Quertermous.

  “You allege your broker engaged in risky investments and under his guidance the value of your portfolio declined by sixty-some percent,” Ray continued as Quertermous perused the piece.

  “Sixty-seven. He deceived me, told me to hang with certain investments, that I was in the right position for the next bull market. My savings, my inheritance, much of it is gone. And you probably think it’s a frivolous suit?”

  “I have no opinion on that. I’m just curious about your possible claim on the Allen estate. And your lack of openness about your familial connection to Ms. Allen.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” he screamed, small drops of spittle coming in Ray’s direction. “I know how you people think! Since I’ve got money problems, I’ve got a motive for murder. Well, your silly supposition is dreadfully erroneous. I didn’t know that she had any money until after she was dead. And I just did what anyone would do.”

  “Really?” Ray responded, leaving the word hang.

  “Money’s not a bad thing,” he explained in a righteous tone. “If Ashleigh didn’t do thoughtful planning, the funds could go to foolish causes or the government. I can use that money, and I can see to it that anything that’s left will go to a good purpose when I die.”

  “Regarding Ashleigh’s estate, how did you know who to contact?”

  “The Howard’s have always used the same firm. It wasn’t hard.”

  “And you never told her you were a distant relative? Not when she was a student, not later?”

  “No.” Quertermous folded his arms in front of him, the now-crumpled copy of the article in his right hand.

  “Why?”

  “When she was a student, it just didn’t seem appropriate. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were first cousins or anything.”

  “And when she came back as a faculty member?”

  “Well, I didn’t like her much. Before the end of that first fall it was clear that she and Warrington were involved in a liaison. I didn’t want to be related to her.” Quertermous slowed down, his anger fading a bit. “Gwendolyn Howard created a very special place, a place where adolescents learned to control their own destinies; a place where we nurtured their emotional and intellectual development. We put them in control of their lives, taught them to be passionate about anything they pursued. And if you look at our graduates from those early years, well, they’re exceptional people, people who have done good things with their lives, people who have made the world a better place. We have produced poets, doctors, teachers, scientists, carpenters, entrepreneurs, you name it. Most of them have excelled at whatever they have pursued.

  “And what are we doing with students now?” Quertermous asked, anger returning to his voice. “All this collaboration and cooperating claptrap. We are training them to be followers. We are not training them to aspire to be the best, or to lead, just to be good team members. ” He stopped and inhaled deeply. “And Warrington,” he gesticulated wildly, “is at the center of this madness, and people like
Ashleigh are willing accomplices. I am glad Gwendolyn didn’t live long enough to see how they’ve destroyed her dream, her school. It’s too bad.” Quertermous stopped, and a malevolent smile spread across his face.

  “What’s that?” Ray asked.

  “Too bad Ashleigh wasn’t with Warrington on the beach. We could have been rid of the two of them.”

  Ray stood for a long moment and looked at Quertermous, handed back the wrench, and walked to his car. When he reached the bottom of the drive, he paused briefly and looked back up the hill. Quertermous was silhouetted against the horizon, just where he had left him, watching his departure.

  36

  After his meeting with Quertermous, Ray drove to Leiston School and returned to Ashleigh Allen’s unit in Devonshire Cottage. After removing the seal and unlocking the door, he turned on the lights and walked around the apartment again, slowly viewing the interior, imagining the young woman who had inhabited this space. Finally, he walked to the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, and found two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste standing in a heavy plastic cup. He lifted David Dowd’s shaving kit from the top of the toilet tank and placed it in the sink. He looked through the leather bag and found Dowd’s toothbrush in a plastic container. Replacing the bag, his attention returned to the medicine chest. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, removed the two toothbrushes and the cup, and placed them in an evidence bag. He also bagged a comb, hairbrush, and ChapStick tube. After slowly looking around the apartment a final time, he turned off the lights, locked the door, and reattached the police seal. When Ray reached home late that evening, he carried the evidence bags to his study and placed them under the lid of his writing desk, next to a paternity DNA testing kit from Orchid Genescreen. He removed his journal, placed it on the writing surface, and stood for a long time looking at a blank page. Then he returned it to the desk. Ray wasn’t ready to write about this yet. There was still too much turmoil, torment, and uncertainty.

  It was after midnight when Ray was awakened from an uneasy sleep by a call from central dispatch; a fire had been reported at Leiston School. He quickly dressed and drove toward the scene.

  The security booth was empty when Ray entered the school grounds, the gates on both sides of the drive were open. He followed the flashing lights of the fire trucks and other emergency vehicles along the narrow, twisting blacktop road into the oak grove near the faculty lodges. Pulling his vehicle as far off the road as possible, he followed the example of the arriving volunteer firefighters, leaving the path open for the tanker trucks that would be ferrying the thousands of gallons of water needed to battle the fire. Other firefighters came after him, most in pickups, pulling on their equipment and hurrying up the road, encumbered by their heavy coats, pants, and boots, moving toward the blaze.

  As soon as Ray was close, he could see that the burning building was Devonshire Cottage, the duplex that housed Janet Medford and the late Ashleigh Allen. What did we miss? he thought, speculating that the fire was set to destroy evidence in Allen’s apartment. As he got closer he could see the entire building was engulfed in flames.

  The chief, Bernie Rathman, the lone paid member of the village’s otherwise volunteer fire department, was positioning the pumper/tanker fire truck on the access drive near the burning building. He then started the second diesel engine, the one that powered the impeller water pump.

  Ray caught his attention as he swung down from the cab. “It’s a duplex,” Ray said, “only this side is occupied.” “How many people?” Bernie asked.

  “Just one, a woman.”

  “Is she there?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Ray moved away and let Bernie get his people and equipment into position. The fill tank, a collapsible reservoir, was deployed behind the pumper. The first tanker truck backed into position and began pouring its contents into the fill tank.

  The big diesel engine on the pump labored as it was engaged. Initially the brilliant yellow flames from the fire and the headlights and spots on the pumper illuminated the scene. Firefighters dragged a generator in place and positioned floodlights around the perimeter of the building. The lights were switched on, bathing the structure in light. People shouted commands over the din of machinery and the thunderous howl of fire. Working in groups, firefighters pulled out the carefully folded hoses, locking sections together.

  And then the assault began. Three teams of firefighters in succession signaled back to the pumper to charge their lines, their bodies tensing as they prepared to hold the surging hoses. Streams of water exploded through already cracked windows, a violent hissing sound added to the roar of the blaze.

  Two firefighters worked to open the front door, first with a long bar and ax, finally with a sledgehammer. They jumped back as the door fell into the room, a yellow tongue of flame exploded outward and began lapping at the roof. Men at the front of the building redirected a hose into this portal. Smoke and steam poured out of the building, the beams from the strobes and flashers on the emergency vehicles pulsated in the rising column of acrid air.

  Several firefighters positioned a ladder on the right side of the building. A small, athletic man with the grace of a gymnast scampered up to the ridge; he moved to the center of the roof and, using a chain saw—the whine of its engine almost lost in the cacophony—started cutting a hole. He pulled back quickly as his final incision allowed a large rectangle of the roof to fall into the conflagration. He quickly retraced his steps off the building.

  The fire started breaking through the roof along the rafters, tongues of flame working through the shingles near the exterior walls and climbing toward the ridge, the roof boards burning through and falling away, leaving the roof structure outlined in the flaming joists until they, too, collapsed into the interior on both sides of the duplex.

  Ray was so transfixed by the activity that he was startled when he realized a crowd had gathered on the perimeter. Sue Lawrence and some other deputies had secured a line on the far side of the service road, keeping spectators at a safe distance. Ray moved along the line, talking to some of his officers. Suddenly, Ian Warrington grabbed his shoulder.

  “Medford, is she in there?” “I don’t know. The front door appeared to be locked.” Ray watched Warrington’s expression go from concern to horror.

  “Oh, my God. When will you know?”

  “Not for a while. They’ve got to get the fire under control before they can send anyone in.” Warrington disappeared back into the crowd.

  Ray dodged an incoming tanker and drifted back toward the blaze. He lost track of time as he watched firefighters battle the flames. Finally, the color of the inferno was changing, the flames becoming less luminous as the water streamed in. And then, suddenly, the building began to darken, the dazzling light from within started to fade.

  The line of floodlights illuminated the next stage of the battle. The firefighters continued to pour water into the interior, now in positions close to the building, isolating the remaining hot spots, much of the flammable material now consumed. The masonry structure was little more than a shell.

  Ray watched as two firefighters prepared to enter the smoldering building. Weighed down by Scott air packs—tanks on their backs, elaborate masks covering their faces—and carrying flashlights, they slogged into the ruins. He could see the bladelike beams from their lights move around the dark, murky interior. After several long minutes they emerged, one of the men walking to Bernie’s command post near the front of the pumper, pulling off his breathing apparatus as he approached. Ray moved close to hear the conversation.

  “One body on the floor in the main room,” he shouted over the rumble of the diesel.

  “Everything else clear?” Bernie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Ray crossed the road to where his deputies and some Leiston staff members, including Warrington and Sarah James, kept close watch over a small group of spectators who remained. Most of the students had returned to their rooms, surrendering to the cold
and the hour.

  Warrington walked to meet Ray as he approached.

  “You should get the rest of the kids back to the dorms,” Ray said gravely.

  “Medford?”

  “They’ve found a body.”

  Warrington stood looking at Ray, the revolving lights from a rescue truck reflecting in his glasses. Looking overwhelmed, he nodded at Ray and moved toward the crowd. Ray watched as Warrington, Sarah, and the others shepherded the remaining students away.

  When Ray returned to the pumper, Bernie was directing the cleanup. The frenzied pace of the assault was now replaced by the somber and quiet collecting, sorting, and stowing of equipment. The firefighters—most had been pulled from their beds—were exhausted from the battle and now moved methodically.

  “The arson investigator will be here in the morning,” Bernie said.

  “Think he’ll be able to tell us much about the cause of the fire?” Ray asked.

  “You see what’s left,” Bernie responded, looking weary and worn. “The obvious causes of a fire, like a fuel can or a welding torch, aren’t hard to spot, but beyond that it’s often a difficult thing to nail down. A frayed extension cord, a cigarette in a couch, how can you tell? And fires in masonry buildings are especially hot. There’s not much there but ashes and bits of metal.

  “The other half of the duplex,” Ray said, putting his hand on the shoulder of Bernie’s coat, “that’s where the young woman, the murder victim, lived.”

  Bernie nodded, indicating his comprehension.

  “Janet Medford,” Ray continued, “assuming it’s the body you found here,” he paused, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion and his difficulty coherently explaining his concern, “might have had some knowledge important to the case. And any evidence in the murder victim’s apartment is now destroyed.”

  Bernie nodded again. “The autopsy might tell you how the woman died.” He gestured toward the shell of the stone cottage, “Finding the cause of the fire might be much more difficult.”