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

by Jack Flanagan

  “Why do you have that silly grin on your face?” said Morgana, looking troubled.

  “Because my mother always said that people were looking out for me, but she never told me who the ‘they’ were or explained why they were doing it.”

  “Whoever they are, I hope they don't stop,” said Morgana, and I couldn’t have agreed with her more. She leaned down and kissed the side of my head.

  Still dazed, I had some difficulty in orienting myself. I got on all fours and took several breaths. With some assistance from Peterson, I pushed myself up off the ground. As I did, my fingers got enmeshed with something cold and stringy. On my feet again, I gave a quick peek to what I had snatched from the earthen floor.

  There, in my right hand, was a thin, gold chain with a locket covered in fine, gray silt. Not having the time, the inclination, or enough light to examine my find, I discreetly tucked the item into my hip pocket. I said nothing about it, nor did anyone notice what I had done, since the primary concern of my merry band of rescuers was my bleeding head wound.

  #

  CHAPTER 8

  With Peterson giving me his shoulder to lean on, the four of us left the dreariness of the dark basement, negotiated the narrow cellar stairs, and arrived in the dull light of the stormy Vermont sky. Reaching the top step, I noticed the rain had let up, and, to my chagrin, Morgana noticed the extent of my head injury. Her melodious words of comfort and her appraisal of my situation were, in effect, both emotional and repetitive.

  “You stupid, stupid idiot! Your head is still bleeding. What were you thinking? You are too old to play cops and robbers,” she sang into my ear.

  “I wanted to find another way into the inn.”

  “You could have found yourself dead!” she retorted with a vengeance. “You could have gotten killed.” This last refrain was taken up by the tenor and alto voices of my escorting chorus who echoed a similar sentiment.

  Near the end of our the trek from the basement to the kitchen’s service entrance, my rescue team thought it best to play down my being attacked. They agreed that the wiser route would be to say that I had bumped my head. The logic of their argument was lost on me at the time, but it had something to do with unnecessarily getting people upset and ‘not tipping our hand’ in front of strangers, to quote Bo. I do remember nodding, but whether I nodded because I agreed to the plan or because I understood the plan or because I didn’t like strangers, I really can’t say.

  When we arrived at the kitchen, Hograve was waiting at the door. Bo briefly chatted with him who then, in turn, hurriedly led us to the lobby, all the while the innkeeper apologized for the cellar’s entrance being unlocked. Keeping to our plan, no one from our group mentioned the dead body by the wood pile or about me getting attacked. Instead, there was much talk about dirt floors, low-hanging support beams, concussions, lawsuits, doctors, keeping me calm, and brain damage.

  “Hey, guys!” I protested as we went by the salad prep table. “I’m not deaf you know — ” though, in truth, I could only understand half of what was being said.

  “So there is no problem with your hearing,” said Bo. “That’s a good sign, Morgana, don’t you think? As for any brain damage, I’m afraid that the jury is still out on that score.”

  “No, it’s not,” Morgana answered. “That decision came in long ago. Rich has brain damage. I knew it the first day that I met him.”

  “I feel bad now. Many of us knew about his condition for years,” said Bo, “but no one had the nerve to tell you. I’m sorry.”

  “The two of you really can lay it on,” I said, not having a stronger comeback.

  As Morgana and Bo shared a laugh at my expense, we reached the lobby. Peterson guided me into a high-back leather chair that faced the front entrance. Arezoo soon arrived with a plastic bag of ice for my head and a first aid kit. Moira followed, bringing me a cup of hot, green tea. I thanked her, yet I really had an urge for something stronger.

  “Moira, could you get me another Scotch on the rocks.”

  A loud chorus of ‘NOs’ exploded in the room. Wincing from my companions’ response, I diplomatically withdrew my request. “Tea will be just dandy.”

  “Is that a decaf tea, Moira,” asked Morgana, pointing at my cup.

  “It is,” declared the timid woman with pride in her voice.

  “Good. We don’t want you over stimulated, Richard, now do we.” Morgana kissed my forehead and sat adjacently to me on the small sofa.

  “Thank you both,” I said gritting my teeth and forcing a smile.

  Morgana took my hand and held it. She stared sadly into my eyes. From what I could tell, she truly looked concerned which then got me to worry — how badly injured was I? Bo approached and started again with that finger and flashlight business.

  “I warned you, Serena, I will make a meal of your finger if you don’t stop.”

  Unfazed, Bo ceased looking into my face and proceeded to clean and patch up my head wound. “This may sting a little,” she cautioned.

  It did!

  As the good patient that I always try to be, I sought some immediate distraction from Bo’s healing hands, so I watched Hograve. The beleaguered man was puttering about the check-in desk. “The computers and phones still aren’t working,” he said to anyone who was listening. “I can’t get an ambulance or EMT assistance. I can’t even get a damn dial tone.” In frustration, he slammed the receiver into the phone’s cradle and silently stared at his collection of useless technology.

  “Hey, where is Kyle?” I asked.

  Morgana, Bo, and Peterson looked at each other in a queer fashion. But it was Hograve who answered. “The Sheriff, well, he’s taking a shower at the moment.”

  “Another shower? Why?”

  Morgana, Bo and Peterson looked at each other again, smiled, and shook their heads in disbelief. Even Hograve started to chuckle to himself.

  “Kyle,” said Bo, “slid down an embankment and almost went into the river, again, just before the three of us came to your . . . rescue.”

  “The Sheriff,” interrupted Peterson, eager to tell the tale, “was slipping and sliding in the mud by the river’s edge. As he was trying to get himself to a safer footing, we all heard a blood-curdling scream from the direction of the inn. Right after that, Mrs. MacKenzie ran to us saying that the loud cry came from the cellar, that you may be down there, and that you could be in trouble. In the excitement, the Sheriff suddenly slipped and fell flat-faced in the muck. He didn’t waste time. Covered in mud, he waved, saying that he was okay and that we should go to your aid and not wait for him.”

  “That’s my brother, always thinking of others, never himself. . . . Then again, if you had waited for him, I might have been bludgeon to death.”

  “What was that?” asked Arezoo.

  “I’m sorry, meant to say that I might have bled to death,” I quickly corrected myself. “And . . . eh, Kyle, is he okay?”

  “Absolutely, Richard,” said Morgana, gently caressing my hand.

  “Just before all of you arrived,” interrupted Hograve, “the sheriff was here in the lobby, covered in mud. I sent him upstairs to your room to have a shower.”

  Morgana sighed and gently shook my knee. “I told you . . . he’s okay; don’t worry, Rich.” She turned to Arezoo and asked for a cup of green tea for herself. With an acknowledging tip of her head, she went about the task.

  “I assumed it was okay for the Sheriff to use your room?” asked Hograve. “There wasn’t a problem with that, was there?”

  “No, problem, Mr. Hograve,” I answered in a volume that reverberated through my skull, giving me an unexpected twinge of pain. Then speaking more softly, I added — and to this day I don’t know why — “We can't have a muddied up sheriff lurking about while he investigated a murder, now can we?”

  It could have been the result of the blow that I received, but when I said the word “murder” I thought I saw the harried innkeeper lose all color in his face.

  “Murder?” Hog
rave gasped. “Mr. Foley was murdered?”

  And that was when my scrambled brain took a walk and left my mouth in control. “Foley? No, not him, we’re not sure how he died. I’m talking about the other dead guy, the one behind the wood pile with part of his head blown off.”

  Mr. Hograve fell from sight, amid a sudden crash from behind the desk.

  “What happened?” yelped Moira.

  Peterson dashed to the desk. “I think Mr. Hograve fainted — Are you okay, Sir?”

  “Forever, a master of tact. Nice going, Old Sport,” said Bo apparently annoyed as she dashed to assist Peterson.

  A weak disembodied voice answered, “I’m all right.” The rumbly sound, of a chair moving across the floor boards, precluded the resurrection of a disheveled Mr. Hograve. With the assistance of Bo and Peterson, Hograve found footing and asked, “You said there was a murder behind the wood pile? Who was murdered?”

  It was at this point that Arezoo returned to the room with Morgana’s tea. “Is there anything wrong, Mr.Hograve?”

  Still slow on the uptake, I couldn't stop Peterson from making matters worse. “No need to worry,” the deputy innocently said, “Mr. Hograve was just a little taken back with the news that we found a dead body by the wood pile.”

  “What is with you people!” Bo said, throwing up her hands. “We had a plan, remember.”

  Arezoo, clearly upset, started chattering to herself in, God only knows, what language. Mr. Congeniality — my foot slamming friend — frantically emerged from the kitchen and went to Arezoo’s side. The two talked with great animation. I hadn’t a clue what either of them was saying to each other, but whatever it was, it didn’t prevent Arezoo from unleashing a flood of tears. Her escort tenderly held her close, spoke to her softly, and gently stroked her shoulder length, dark hair.

  Still slow in making sense of things, I finally concluded that my foot slamming assailant must be Arezoo’s husband, and, therefore, the inn’s cook.

  “My wife wants to see this dead man,” explained Arezoo’s hubby, between his wife’s heartfelt sobs.

  “I wouldn’t,” warned Bo. “He was shot in the head. It’s not pretty. There is no need for you to — ”

  Arezoo let out a heart-wrenching sob and buried her face into husband’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Bo asked.

  “My wife is very upset. She believes that the dead man outside is her brother.”

  “Her brother?” Hograve remarked revealing his ignorance of the situation. “Babak, why would Arezoo think that her brother would be the d . . . eh, outside?”

  “Because he was secretly living in the boat house for several days.”

  “What!” said Hograve — and he didn’t seem pleased.

  “Hey, we’re not sure if the dead man is Ms. Arezoo’s brother,” interjected Peterson, who tried to assume the dual roles of consoler and investigator. “Though we didn’t see anyone else outside — ”

  “Arezoo, did your brother own a black slicker and wear a big, fancy, gold wristwatch on his right hand?”— my calling from across the room had me wincing again.

  Arezoo hesitated a bit before she moved her head a few inches away from her husband’s chest and answered, “Yes, he wore a black rain jacket. And he had a very grand gold wristwatch that he gave himself when he . . . he — ”

  “When he what, Arezoo?” asked Bo in an unctuous tone.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said with some authority. “Yes, Arezoo, I fear that the dead chap is your brother. I’m so sorry.”

  Arezoo started to cry again and demanded to go to her brother’s body. Peterson object saying the area around the body was a crime scene. The deputy’s objection sounded reasonable to me, but Arezoo and her husband had a different take on the situation. Bo and Morgana came to Peterson’s aid, asking Arezoo and Babak to wait a bit. An argument soon ensued which became quite loud making my condition worse.

  “Knock it off, and shut up!“ I bellowed to my instant regret. “We’re sorry about your brother . . . if it is your brother — and I am pretty sure it is. But as you heard the deputy sheriff say, you can’t go mucking about the crime scene at the moment. If we are to have any chance of getting the person who killed your brother, please cooperate and do what Agent Boswell and Deputy Peterson have asked. Is that too difficult to understand? Your brother is not going anywhere; we’re on an island, and he’s quite dead. Now keep quiet. You all are making my head throb by this vacuous bickering.”

  When I finished, everyone in the room looked at me like I was the cat that ate the canary. I thought that I had made a very succinct and reasonable request. But, as Morgana was to inform me later, I came off as an inconsiderate, authoritarian, pompous ass. Peterson talked to Arezoo and her husband privately in one corner of the room. Morgana came over and instructed me to have some more tea. “I know that it is decaffeinated, but try not to go to sleep. You’re not out of the woods for a concussion.”

  Bo came by. “Listen to your wife,” she advised. “Stay put in your chair, take some tea, stay out of trouble, and, please, Old Sport, kept your mouth shut.” Without waiting for a response, she went to assist Peterson with Arezoo and her husband who had by this time moved their lively discussion to the kitchen. Moira followed Bo, taking with her some dirty dishes. Hograve left the lobby for parts unknown muttering about possible leaks in the north side gables.

  As I sat holding an icepack on my banged up head with one hand and with the other rubbed my scraped shin and bruised foot, I lost track of the debate about the body by the woodpile. Instead, I pondered whether my injuries would leave tell-tale scars. Morgana sat on the sofa across from me with that worried look of hers and asked how I was feeling.

  “Well, I definitely felt better yesterday, but I’m okay,” I said as I held an ice pack on my head with one hand and rubbed my bruised foot with the other. I had lost track of the debate about the body by the woodpile and pondered whether my injuries would leave tell-tale scars.

  “Are you sure that you’re okay, Love,” Morgana asked again.

  “Yep, don’t worry.”

  She didn’t say, but I could tell that Morgana was worried, which bothered me on all sorts of levels. But I put on a brave face and tried to convince her that, though I was sore from head to toe, I truly was okay. She gave me a smile, leaned toward me, took my hand, gently rubbed it, and softly said, “I love you, but I don’t believe you.”

  “And I love you too.” We shared a private chuckle.

  “You could have gotten yourself killed, you know,” Morgana gently admonished.

  “I do now,” I said with bitter regret.

  “I feel that I’m a little responsible for you getting hurt. If I had only made you come inside with me, or if I went with you to the cellar, or if I didn’t ask you to come with me to the inn in the first place, you’d be — ” Morgana stopped and looked at the floor.

  What can I say, she hit a bullseye with every one of her ‘ifs’. Yet, I knew that if I told her that she was correct in her assessment of my situation, it wouldn’t make anyone feel better. No — I took the high ground instead.

  “Stop it, Love. You had nothing to do with my getting clobbered.” I held onto her hand and gave it a squeeze to reassure her that all was right with me. We had a pleasant quiet moment. Eventually, she slowly let go of my hand and leaned back into her seat. She hesitated a second before asking me something very odd. “Richard, are you happy that you married me?”

  I wondered what brought this question up. Was it my recklessness in the cellar, or was it my preference to have a Scotch instead of a cup of tea or had it something to do with Bo? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t in the mood to answer dumb girl questions. “Yes, quite. What made you ask that?”

  “Agent Boswell.” Bo’s sudden return to my life had poisoned the air. I knew it wasn’t a fatal dose, but Bo’s mere presence left enough venom to cause an itch in Morgana’s and my relationship. And I don’t like scratching.

  “I love you
, Morgana. Just you.”

  “But you did love her once?”

  “I may have, sometime before Columbus set on his first voyage. But my feelings for you are deeper, than any I had for Serena, they always were. The feelings I had for her were those of a college kid.”

  “Serena is very attractive . . . sexy even. She’s smart and wealthy. She likes you. Don’t deny it. I can tell. And don’t say that I am imagining it; any woman can tell that she does. And I believe that she is the type of person that if I walked up to her and asked if she still has feelings for you, she would not deny it. Of course, I’m not going to, but if–”

  “Stop it. I love you. You’re smart, good looking and sexy too. You aren’t wealthy, but there is still time.”

  Morgana smiled from beneath her sad eyes, and I was relieved that I was getting through to her. We had looked silently at each other for several heartbeats before we both started to giggle. But soon her giggles turned into a round of belly laughs when she looked over my shoulder toward the lobby staircase. Taking Morgana’s lead, I turned around to see. It was none other than Kyle descending the stairs. Once again, he was dressed his bathrobe and pajama bottoms ensemble that he wore earlier which was accessorized with a white plastic grocery bag in his left hand.

  “Don’t laugh. My uniform is worse than it was before,” commanded my brother as he approached us. “Is anyone around?”

  “No, just us. Everyone else seems to be in the kitchen,” I said, trying not to laugh.

  “With a second dead body showing up, I can’t stay in a room until my clothes are ready. My duty as sheriff of this county comes before — ”

  “Fashion?” I blurted, earning a slap on the knee from my wife, who, I could tell by her tight lips, was straining not laugh anymore.

  “No, you insensitive clod, I mean my personal embarrassment,” said Kyle jutting his chin. “And before you say another smart ass remark, I found this on the muddy banks.”

  Kyle waved in front of us a white plastic grocery bag containing a gun — a gun that looked very similar to the one discovered in Foley's room.