FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2)

by Jack Flanagan

  “You said that to your wife because . . . ?”

  “Forget it. Why my car?”

  “Because . . . if the body must be moved, and no other official transportation can be arranged, your vehicle is the only one in which Mr. Foley can fit comfortably.”

  “Comfortably! He’s dead. How about your car?”

  Bo stood up and looked over my shoulder and out the lobby window. “I have a two-door, rented economy car, that presently has a downed tree limb laying on top of it. There is no way to put Foley into the crushed back seat of my car or stuff him in a crumpled trunk.” I turned around and saw the mangled hulk of a car with the tree on it. She looked down at me saying, “Some luck, eh? I wasn’t here for fifteen minutes when that oak tree decided to use my car as a trampoline.”

  “So, the car with the fallen tree limb on it, is your car?”

  Bo jabbed her index finger into my left shoulder. “Bingo, Old Sport.”

  “How about Foley’s friend, you know, the guy who Foley called Charles. . . .”

  “Charles Smith? Almost the same story, his car is too small, along with everybody else’s car at the inn. All the guest cars are gasoline efficient but too small to haul a body. And before you start . . . Hograve’s truck went for repairs yesterday.”

  “Can’t Foley wait for ah . . . .”

  “A meat wagon?” Serena said.

  “An ambulance — ”

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Bo gave me a non-threatening smile with that special twinkle in her blue jewel-like eyes. She brushed her soft hand across my cheek. “I know what you meant. We’ll try to get some other vehicle, but remember the phones are out.” Her smile broadened ever so slightly.“I forgot how much fun it was busting your chops, Old Sport.” Bo’s fingers made their way to my hair. Her scent carried me back to my youth and to lazy rainy afternoons sharing a bed. “It is so good to see you again, Rich.”

  “It’s good to see you too . . . I guess.” I half-lied, and gently escorted her hand away from my head.

  “So before the others start to wonder about us, will you, for old times sake, let me have it.”

  “What?”

  “The car . . . may we use the car?”

  “Fine,” I said out of relief, “if nothing else will do the job, you can use it.”

  “I’ll let you drive,” she said mockingly.

  “Thanks a lot.” I stood up and turned to go back to the safety of Morgana and company.

  Bo suddenly grabbed hold of my sleeve; I instinctively looked down at my arm, then turned, and our eyes met.

  “Deep down, you still think of me, don’t you?” Bo asked.

  I said nothing.

  “Good,” she said with a growing broad smile. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Approaching voices were heard at the top of the main staircase. Bo loosened her grip and proceeded back to the dining room. Several seconds had gone by before I followed her. As we were passing by the staircase, Mr. Hograve was coming down with one of the men who seemed to have been acquainted with the late Mr. Foley.

  “Agent Boswell,” asked Hograve, “have you . . . eh, asked?”

  “I have and Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “Doctor Mackenzie,” I interjected.

  “Right.” Bo tried to keep in a chuckle by putting her fingertip to her lips as she was wont to do from the past. “Dr. Mackenzie has given us permission to use his station wagon if we need it.”

  “Much appreciated, Dr. Mackenzie,” said Hograve.

  “And, ah, Agent Boswell,” interrupted the man who accompanied the innkeeper, “may we now go into Mr. Foley’s room to collect his things? As I said to you upstairs, Foley is . . . was a friend and business associate and he may have had some important papers of ours.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but the room will remain locked and out of bounds until we get some word to the contrary from the local authorities.”

  “And if we don’t get any word?”

  “I’m working on that. Is there anything specific in Foley’s room that is yours?”

  Smith looked at us both, took a breath, and said, “I don’t know what he had with him. Maybe there are some time sensitive business papers, computer files, names and addresses of clients. I will know when I see them.”

  “I see; And, ah, what type of business were you and Foley in?”

  “International . . . eh, imports and exports. But I told you all this upstairs.”

  “So you did. Well, I will see what I can do about your dilemma, but as of now the room is off limits.”

  “Right, well then, I’ll join my associates. Let me know as soon as you get the word about getting my things.” Smith took his leave and went back upstairs, and not very happy judging him by the scowl he had on.

  Bo and I watched him go until Hograve said, “Thank you so much again, Dr. MacKenzie.” Hograve had returned to the check-in desk and began to fumble around with wires and cables that were attached to the computer and phone system.

  “As I told Agent Boswell here, I’m happy to help, in any way I can.”

  “That’s what Dr. MacKenzie said,” added Bo, who barely suppressed a giggle.

  “Well, I hope that it won’t come to your station wagon,” said Hograve looking out the front window. “I have never seen a storm like this one. This Nor’easter has caused nothing but havoc since it started. I had twenty reservations for today. Three of those had canceled before the phone and computers went down. The only reservations to check in are Mr. Foley, his three associates, Mrs. Prosper, the MacKenzies, and you, Agent Boswell.”

  “Conditions were bad when I arrived this morning from Bennington. The driving was horrible. On the way, I saw the police closing several side roads because of the flooding and washouts.”

  Bo's recap of her car trip had me think of my brother Kyle, the sheriff here in Starkshire County, out on the road someplace. The image of his prodigious personage, wind-whipped, and wearing one of those bright reddish-orange waterproof ponchos had me fantasizing about a renegade balloon from a Thanksgiving Day parade directing traffic. I couldn’t help but to chuckle.

  Leaving Hograve to deal with his computer troubles, Bo and I returned to our table where Mrs. Prosper was busily engaged in a speech about yogurt.

  “Good, you’re back,” said Morgana without a trace vitriol in her voice. “Your drinks just arrived, and Moira went back to do her chores.” When I sat down, Morgana gently took my hand and softly patted it, “I’m sure, Serena, your yogurt will be to your liking. Mrs. Prosper has been telling me since the two of you left, that the yogurt served at the inn is made here, and is reportedly to be quite exceptional.”

  In less than ten minutes, it had appeared that Mrs. Prosper had doused all embers of jealousy and suspicion that may have been smoldering in Morgana’s imagination. My wife’s eyes flashed me a new message, and it was written in capital letters — HELP ME!

  “How’s your tea, Morgana? By the scent and color . . . English Breakfast?” asked Bo, smiling and, to my ear, with friendly curiosity.

  “It is, and it is very good.”

  My wife’s comment cued Mrs. Prosper to begin a disquisition about English Breakfast tea, her preference for tea bags, and not loose teas, her first memories having Earl Grey tea, the preparation in making a proper pot of tea (British style), as well as Dead Fred’s preference for black tea, and Long Island Ice Tea, which Mrs. Prosper emphatically reminded us, wasn’t tea at all.

  When Mrs. Prosper started her tale about a teapot purchase at a Persian bazaar fifty odd years ago, Bo abruptly interrupted. “Well, Morgana, with all this commotion going on, we haven’t really gotten to know each other. You and Richard have been married a little over fifteen years, I think?”

  “Yes, but how do you know?” Morgana acquired that wary and inquisitive look of hers again; similar to the one she has when she asks how many drinks I may have had at a
party.

  “You don’t remember? . . . The two of you sent me an invitation to your wedding. Regretfully, I couldn’t attend to give you a proper send-off. I was on assignment at the time. In fact, I didn’t receive the invitation until a month after the wedding.”

  “I’m sorry, your invitation must have been in the batch that Richard was responsible for. Wow. . . after all this time, you remembered how long it has been since Richard and I were married. How interesting.”

  “It would be if I didn’t have a near photographic memory.” Bo took a quick sip of her Scotch.

  “A photographic memory?”

  “Pretty much. My gift gives me an advantage at work. But at times, it can be a curse. There are days that I find myself remembering things best left forgotten.”

  “Like wedding dates of old friends?” said Morgana, whose words were like a short thrust across the table.

  “Like late invitations for missed weddings,” parried Bo, who then turned her head and looked at me. “I would have so liked to have been there on your big day to send you off. I owed you at least that. After all, Richard, you brought me to Paradise,” said Bo with a wicked grin, which didn’t go unseen by Morgana. “Yes, Paradise, Kansas. That was a trip that I will always remember.”

  If I didn’t have a personal stake in this verbal joust of wits between Morgana and Bo, I think I would have enjoyed the match. However, Mrs. Prosper appeared oblivious to the clash. The old woman, oddly enough, sat quietly and stirred her tea.

  “So, Serena, you’re up here in Vermont because of the committee meeting, eh?” I asked to change topics.

  “Two things really — government business for one and the other, of course, is the fundraising committee meeting for are old college. Again, let me apologize now for being late. The drive from Bennington, this morning, was nothing short of horrendous.” Bo then tasted her yogurt. “Hmm, good Vermont yogurt . . . definitely made locally,” she concluded.

  There were several painfully long seconds when no one said anything at our table. Even Mrs. Prosper was quiet as she was plucking pills from her dated pill box organizer. Morgana didn’t look happy and was about to speak. What she was going to say, I had no idea. And quite frankly, I didn’t want to find out.

  “So Serena, you’re on the fundraising committee?” I asked.

  “Representing my grandmother’s trust fund, the Mabel Taylor Fund.”

  “I remember your grandmother,” said Mrs. Prosper. “She was a fine lady.”

  “Yes, she was, and very wealthy,” answered Bo as she slowly spooned her yogurt in short little swirling sweeps to her full moist lips.

  “I suppose she was,” said Morgana.

  “The result is,” Bo took another spoon of yogurt and savored it before saying, “that I am the Mabel Taylor Fund incarnate, so to speak.”

  Bo turned to me. She had that type of mischievous gleam in her eyes that a prankster would have when he throws a hot potato to some unexacting soul. “It was the Mabel Taylor Fund that not only helped you, Rich, to finance your undergraduate studies at Stark Monument, but it also paid for a good portion of your graduate work at Harvard.”

  That last tidbit of information was news to me

  “It’s a very prestigious and lucrative fund, which was set up to encourage young people to become teachers,” said Mrs. Prosper adding her two cents.

  The Battle of the Late Morning Tea came to an abrupt and inconclusive end when Simon Hograve walked over to the table. “Agent Boswell because of the unusual circumstances resulting from the storm, we won’t be able to keep you in the room that was originally assigned to you . . . There’s no heat. So we put you in the room next to the MacKenzie’s, if that is okay with you.”

  “That will be fine,” said Bo with accommodating enthusiasm.

  “Shall I have housekeeping help move you to your new room?”

  “No, no, no, I haven’t unpacked. I’ll go up and move my stuff now. Just show me the way.” Bo excused herself from our little gathering and followed Hograve out of the room.

  Before anyone could say a word, I put my empty glass down and announced, “I think I will walk around and explore . . . and to see if they need our car.” I was not going to spend another minute listening to the ever unfolding narratives of Mrs. Prosper.

  As I got up from my seat, Morgana pelted me with a flurry of questions, “Where are you going? How long will you be? Where shall I find you — Ah, who needs our car?”

  I kissed Morgana on the cheek, “Just a walk around the inn, Dear. I’ll be back in a little while. I’ll meet you here or in our room. And, yes, Mr. Hograve and Agent Boswell have asked for our station wagon to transport the late Mr. Foley’s to town if no other arrangements can be made.”

  It took at least three seconds, or so, for the possible use of our car clicked through Morgana’s thought processes. I was several feet away from the table, heading toward the lobby, when I heard, “You’re putting a dead body into our car?”

  Without breaking my stride, I briefly turned to look back at Morgana. “Maybe, don’t worry. I’ll come back and get you if we need any help with Mr. Foley.”

  I smiled as I continued my escape. As I entered the lobby, I could hear Mrs. Prosper start a new lecture about her first time buying a car. A car, she said, that had a greenish color that her Dead “Fred didn’t like,” but she did.

  Acquiring a few moments of solitude, I went to the front desk and picked up a free copy of The New England All Season Weekly and sat down to read it. The Weekly is one of those complimentary rag sheets which is loaded with coupons from local businesses, tourist info, a horoscope, a crossword puzzle geared for daytime couch potatoes, and letters-to-the-editor from provincials. As I got midway into curious little piece about last year’s maple sap harvest, I heard my name called, and it sent a shiver up my spine.

  I looked up.

  “Richard, I need you.” With her coat on, Bo sprinted down the stairs, closely followed by one of Foley’s associates. “Get your jacket, Old Sport. It’s bad outside.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I said — annoyed in being scuttled about by every woman who happened to be a guest at the inn.

  “You’re taking me,” said Bo just having reached the base of the stairs. “You volunteered to help me to get Mr. Foley out of here, remember?”

  “I’ve been thinking . . . maybe we shouldn’t move the body . . . .Maybe, we should first drive to the state police HQ or to the sheriff’s and report what has happened here before we start moving Mr.Foley.”

  “Good, get your coat and let’s go.” Bo’s tone was getting more insistent.

  “Me? Why am I going?”

  “Because you just volunteered. You said, and I quote, ‘Maybe we should drive to the sheriff’s and report what has happened here before we start moving Mr.Foley.’ And I agree with you. Let’s go.”

  “Why don’t you use your car?” I said with some indignation.

  In a severe, hushed voice, Bo answered, “Because I have a tree it, remember. Come on, let’s get going.”

  Before I could muster up another word of protest, Bo pressed her point. “How many times have I told you, Old Sport, never argue with a woman who has a near perfect memory and excellent hearing. You will lose; you will always lose, if not the argument, then something else; something maybe more important than a debate. In either case, you . . . will . . . lose. So get your coat and go get your car.”

  As the gentleman who trailed Bo down the stairs browse the brochure’s at the front desk, Bo quite unexpectedly leaned into me and whispered, “Damn it, Richard. I must talk to you alone.”

  “What, again?”

  The word “alone” disturbed me. Our recent encounter, plus my half-forgotten experiences with Bo only meant trouble for me. But whatever Bo wanted to tell me, it wasn't going to be revealed to me in the lobby.

  I then heard a new concern slowly approaching.

  “The Hograve’s changed the color of the lobby back in the 1960s f
rom a light pink, which I always liked, to this soft apricot color. But Simon has done some extensive research on the matter, and he says that this color is closer to the original one.” That interminable droning voice came closer and closer in short unflagging steps. “Isn’t that your husband?” Mrs. prosper pointed in my direction. “Maybe he can.”

  Bo’s plan suddenly sounded very appealing to me. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll run up to the room and get my coat.”

  “Richard,” Morgana called to me from the hallway entrance, “Mrs. Prosper was just telling me about the different color schemes used in the lobby over the years.”

  Nimble and swift of foot I am not, so I met the onslaught head-on. Morgana and her dreaded escort had targeted me and were bearing down. On the other hand, Bo standing next to me, prodded me to move by discretely pulling my belt loop. Bo’s eyes showed her growing impatience. I was in quite a predicament. Like the settlers on the prairie in an old western film, I was surrounded by hostiles. There was no escape. I was doomed.

  But Fortune does occasionally smile on us mortals. Without warning, the inn’s great oaken door swung open. A cold, damp, gust swirled through the lobby. And there in the front entrance, arrived the US Cavalry, in the guise of the Starkshire County Sheriff’s Department, to the rescue.

  Two green-uniformed figures, wearing fluorescent orange ponchos, emerged from the raging tempest outside. The more familiar one, who had the outward appearance of a gift wrapped, giant avocado, sort of tumbled into the lobby’s foyer as he struggled to hold open the door, buffeted by the wind.

  “Kyle?” I said more out of curiosity than surprise.

  My brother scrambled to maintain his balance and succeeded. Only his campaign hat was knocked off kilter. He pushed the hat up off his face that the underside of the hat’s plastic rain-cover gave the impression of a hovering halo.

  The second figure, trailing right behind my brother, I also knew. In contrast to his superior, Deputy Peterson looked like how one would envision a Vermont deputy. Right out of central casting, Peterson possessed an imposing stature; however he wasn’t as tall as Kyle and quite definitely not as wide. The young deputy commanded a physique of an athletic — trim, sculptured, and muscular. He wasn’t a scholar and somewhat naive in social settings, but Peterson was serious about his work. The deputy had proven to be a quick learner and to have a strong streak of common sense. At times, he could talk the paint off a wall, but only when he was nervous or very excited. In short, I found Peterson to be a good egg, and I liked him.