SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Dr. Cruikshank, is it possible that Mary Naulls, an admittedly brilliant woman, could have stopped here on her way out of town, stole chemicals from her own lab, replaced them with similar solutions and then killed the guard? The only person who would know she was here.”

  Cruikshank threw up his hands.

  “Anything is possible, Rhode. But why would she do that? She was presumably in a hurry to leave the area.”

  “Maybe she wanted to keep killing people and needed the ingredients.”

  “She could have brought them out in small batches over years. Why keep them here?”

  “For one thing, murderers try not to keep too much evidence in their own homes. For another, what better place to keep stuff than in plain sight in your own lab? And don’t forget, the quick blood test of Richter may have been a shock to her. Her escape was probably spur of the moment.”

  He shook his head.

  “I would file all of this under logical, but not likely. I think you are hearing hooves and thinking zebras instead of horses.”

  I hated that phrase. In my line of work, I never thought horses, because it was the zebras that could get you killed.

  There wasn’t much else to get out of Cruikshank.

  “I don’t suppose you have a photo of Mary Naulls. In your files, perhaps?”

  He shook his head.

  “We’re a small company. We don’t take corporate photos. When the police made their initial inquiries, we thought we might find some pictures of Mary at a company function, a picnic or presentation, that sort of thing. But there weren’t any.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Yes. If what they say about Mary is true, she probably avoided having her photo taken. Employees were asked to sit with a sketch artist.”

  “What about due diligence when you hired her? Surely you ran a background check.”

  “There was no need. Her reputation preceded her. Mary held a Doctorate from the Institute of Biomaterials and Biomedical Engineering from the University of Toronto, one of the finest research schools in the world. She came highly recommended by experts in the field. We were very anxious when it appeared there might be a snag.”

  “Snag?”

  “Yes. You see her father died suddenly, just before she was to start with us, and she needed time to settle her affairs. There was property to be sold, and the like. We were afraid that a rival company might steal her before she came here. It’s not uncommon. It’s a form of corporate piracy you don’t often hear about.”

  “You said he died suddenly. How?”

  “An air accident. He disappeared over the ocean flying his own plane to visit some of his congregation. He was a fairly well-known minister in British Columbia. I even went to the funeral in Ocean Falls, the small fishing village where she came from. Or, rather, memorial service. There was no body, of course.”

  Cruikshank went to keep an eye on his prize recruit, I thought.

  “When was this?”

  “Well, just before she came to us, in 2003. We needn’t have worried. Mary wrapped up her affairs in record time, considering.”

  “Did they ever discover what caused the accident?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I spoke to some people when I was out there and the consensus seemed to be that Rev. Naulls had a stroke or heart attack.”

  Heart attack, again.

  “I thought Mary was Catholic.”

  “She was apparently a convert from the Lutheran Church. I gathered from what I heard at the memorial service that she and her father didn’t see eye-to-eye about a lot of things, religion included. Converts can be even more dogmatic than those born into a church. Mary wore her Catholic faith on her sleeve.”

  “Why did they think heart attack, if no body was found?”

  “Because the plane apparently flew on in a straight line out over the Pacific before running out of fuel, probably on autopilot. What other explanation could there be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Doc. Maybe he was paralyzed by some froggy poison.”

  Cruikshank’s mouth was still open when I left.

  ***

  “How did it go?”

  Barrett and I were driving back to town.

  “I may be setting a record for finding out things I can’t prove. Cruikshank said he had no photos of Mary Naulls but he and others worked with a sketch artist. Does that mean you couldn’t dig up any pictures of her?”

  “There weren’t any. Not in her house. Or in any of the church publications. She was active in certain groups, like the choir, but always seemed to avoid being photographed.”

  “I’d like to see the sketch.”

  “I’ll see if I can find it. It’s been five years. If she is on the run, she’s had plenty of time to change her appearance.”

  “Cruikshank said she attended the University of Toronto. What about school or yearbook photos?”

  “We checked. She did her undergraduate and graduate work there, but never joined any clubs or sororities. And there were no yearbook or graduation photos of her. Either she was very shy, or she was really planning ahead.”

  “Did you check into her background where she lived in British Colombia before she moved here?”

  “Yes. I contacted the R.C.M.P. barracks in Bella Coola, which covers Ocean Falls. But it was a dead end. She grew up in Ocean Falls but after going away to university spent most of her time in South and Central America doing research and living with the natives. She only went home intermittently after her mother died. The locals said she was not particularly close to her father, who was apparently pretty straight-laced. They said she left town more or less permanently when he died.”

  “What about photos from high school. Hell, any school? She couldn’t have been planning murder since kindergarten.”

  “I thought of that.”

  Barrett looked offended.

  “Of course you did, Annie. I’m sorry. You are a great cop. I’m just frustrated.”

  “Well, this won’t help. She was basically home-schooled, like a lot of kids in isolated communities. Plus, her mother was a teacher before she married. Another dead end.”

  Having just told her she was a great cop, I didn’t like asking the next question.

  “Didn’t the manner of her father’s death bother you?”

  “Why? It was an air crash. He flew his own plane frequently in some of the roughest weather and terrain on earth. I guess God wasn’t his co-pilot that day.”

  I filled her in on what Cruikshank told me about the “accident.”

  “That doesn’t prove ….” She stopped. “Oh, Jesus, God. I screwed up.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Annie. You were working a case on your own, with no support. Your boss would have buried it anyway. And, once again, there is no proof.”

  I don’t think it made her feel any better. She was silent until she dropped me off at the Holiday Inn.

  “I’ll let you know when I find out about the sketch, Rhode.”

  I promised to keep her in the loop if I found out anything. I always say that, and rarely follow through. But in her case, I thought I might.

  CHAPTER 27 – OCEAN FALLS

  The next morning, Annie Barrett called me.

  “There is no sketch in the file, but that’s not unusual. We put it on the wires and one of the constables took the original around to show people locally. Things get lost. We don’t have our own sketch artist, so we borrowed one from Toronto. I’ll see if they can locate a copy in the main files at headquarters. If not, I’ll try to track the artist down. I don’t think those guys throw anything out. But, like I said, I don’t know how much help it will be. It’s been five years. She probably doesn’t look anything like the sketch now. I wouldn’t, if I were her. I’ve got your card. I’ll send you an email or FAX if I find it.”

  “Thanks, Annie. I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  A half hour later I was on my way to the Toronto airport.

  But I wasn’t
going home.

  ***

  I flew to Vancouver on Air Canada and then chartered a puddle jumper seaplane to Ocean Falls, a small town in one of the many inlets along the coast of British Columbia on Hecate Sound. I was burning through my Tiffany retainer at a record clip.

  My seaplane pilot asked me if I wanted to see some scenery on the way and, like an idiot, I said yes. His scenic tour consisted of flying very low through valleys and passes, often swooping at the last moment to avoid crashing. During a brief period of level flight, after my stomach caught up with me, I asked him if he knew the Naulls family.

  “Old Humpy Naulls? Sure, I knew him.”

  “Humpy? We talking about the same man? The guy I mean was a minister.”

  The pilot laughed as he banked and dove toward the water in what seemed like a death dive.

  “Look down there. It’s a pod of orcas, killer whales.”

  We skimmed over the whales and then we thankfully resumed a normal flight.

  “Where was I? Oh, yeah. Humpy Naulls. Same guy. The Reverend Humphrey Naulls, pastor of the north, they used to call him. Flew his own plane to visit his flocks, where he flocked a lot of lonely ladies.” He laughed at his own humor. “When their husbands weren’t around, of course. Phoniest bastard I ever met. Would hump a wolverine if it would stay still. Didn’t leave much for anyone else, and the pickings up here aren’t all that great to begin with. Got himself killed a ways back. I helped out in the search. Never found anything, though.”

  “Sounds like your heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Oh, hell. I gave it my best shot. Felt sorry for his daughter, is all. She may be the only female he didn’t screw.” Then he thought about that. “Course, the way she left right after school and rarely came back, I had my doubts about even that. Hate to think it, though. She was a looker, and a nice kid. I sometimes flew her back and forth when the old man was away. Heard she’s some big scientist, now. Good for her. What’s your interest in the Naulls clan? There’s none left in these parts. Least that I know of.”

  “I’m looking for Mary Naulls. She’s disappeared.”

  “No kidding. Well she ain’t in Ocean Falls, friend. The population is about 500 nowadays. And I know them all. Unless she is disguised as a seal, you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m just collecting information.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Private. You have any suggestions about who I might talk to, other than the police?”

  He thought about it.

  “Hell, the nearest Mounties are 50 miles away. Your best bet is Leticia Bottomley, old Ben’s widow. Together they ran the local paper for years. Letty kept it going for a while after he died, but shut it down a few years ago. But she knew everyone, knows everything. But be careful. Get her started and she’ll talk your ear off. But you’ll get a good meal. She doesn’t get many visitors and dotes on them.”

  After setting his seaplane down in the blessedly calm waters of the small bay fronting Ocean Falls, the pilot taxied to a small town dock. There was a medium-sized fishing boat tied up to pier just down from us. A man came out of a small shack to help the pilot secure the plane.

  “How are you, Buzz? Good flight?”

  “Yeah, Amos, thanks.”

  “Sticking around?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Buzz the pilot turned to me.

  “How long you staying, Mr. Rhode.”

  “Just the night, I hope. Can you come back for me tomorrow?”

  “Won’t have to. I don’t have another charter until the weekend, so I’m sticking around.”

  “A girl in every port?”

  “Lot easier with Naulls out of the picture, I’ll say that. You have my cell. Just call me when you want to go. If something comes up, I’ll call you. I won’t leave you stranded. Fair enough?”

  I said it was.

  “Where are you staying, mister,” Amos said.

  “Hadn’t given it any thought. You have a suggestion?”

  “Well, there’s no hotel. But I know Captain Paul has a couple of rooms over the tavern that he lets out.”

  “Where is the tavern?”

  Amos pointed to a cluster of buildings just down the street.

  “Can’t miss it. It’s called ‘Captain Paul’s Tavern’.”

  “Original.”

  “It’s his last name. His first is Randy and his wife didn’t want the place named Captain Randy’s. She was afraid it might attract the wrong type of crowd.”

  I looked at the deserted streets. All two of them.

  “Yes, I could see that might be a problem,” I said.

  “She is a bit strange,” Amos admitted. “But good with the buybacks.”

  “He’s going to see Letty Bottomley,” Buzz said.

  “You’d better watch yourself,” Amos said. “I hear old Letty was pretty frisky back in the 60’s.”

  Both men laughed.

  ***

  The tavern was what one would expect in a small fishing village on an unforgiving coast. Wooden and weather-beaten, both inside and out. I could have been in Gloucester. For all that, the interior was warm and spotless, and the small bar had a sort of rustic charm that invites serious drinking. I nodded at two men wearing heavy rain slickers and holding pints. Two red poker chips were on the bar in front of each man. A simple way to keep track of buybacks and drinks owed. A middle-aged woman wearing an black apron with a picture of a salmon on it was tending bar. I asked for a pint.

  “What of?”

  “Whatever these gents are drinking,” I said, “and why don’t you give them both another.”

  “Just leavin’, mate,” one of the men said as they pocketed the two chips in front of them. “Got to ship on the tide. Save your money. But thanks just the same.”

  “That your fishing boat at the dock?”

  “T’is.”

  “Halibut?”

  “Salmon, too.”

  “How long are the poker chips good for?”

  “To the next ice age,” he said. “We’re kind of rooting for global warming.”

  I signaled the barkeep.

  “Give them two chips, on me.” I looked at the men. “For good luck.”

  The men raised their mugs to me in unison and she put another two poker chips in front of them.

  “If you’re here when we get back,” the other man said, “we’ll stand you one.” He blew a kiss to the barkeep. “See you, Katie.”

  “Stay safe, boys,” she replied.

  Katie turned out to be Captain Paul’s wife. She was happy to rent me a room for the night and give me directions to Leticia Bottomley’s cabin, which was about two miles out of town. She suggested I call ahead and I did. As Buzz suggested, I was invited for dinner. At “6 PM sharp.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Mrs. Paul said. “Our dinner special tonight is fish sticks. Make them myself.”

  “A pity,” I managed to say.

  “My God, an honest-to-goodness straight man,” she said, laughing. “I’m just kidding. Jesus. You think with a name like mine I’d serve fish sticks?”

  I was beginning to like Ocean Falls. I had just over an hour to kill so I went up to my room to drop off my overnight bag and clean up. When I went back down, I asked Katie Paul where I could buy some wine to bring for dinner and she went into the back and brought out two bottles of “Blasted Church” Syrah. I raised my eyebrows but she said, “It’s a local winery. Reasonable. I’ll put them on your bill. If you don’t like them, you don’t have to pay. Letty is partial to it.”

  There was no taxi service in town, so she offered to drive me herself.

  “Who’s going to watch the tavern?”

  “I leave it open. Anyone comes in they know to fix themselves a drink. People are honest around here. If I’m not back in time, they leave the money on the bar.”

  “Or poker chips?”

  “Yes, we get a lot of those,” she laughed.

  A few minutes later I climbed out of her
jeep in front of a white clapboard house set among some trees on the side of a small hill.

  “Call me when you’re finished,” Katie Paul said, “and I’ll come and get you.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “We like to make our customers happy,” she said. “Where would we be without repeat business? You might come back in 10 years.”

  CHAPTER 28 – A SWEET CHILD

  Leticia Bottomley was bigger than I expected. Tall but not fat, with a face that, while not pretty, could certainly be described as handsome. Her hair was silver, full and well-kept. She was dressed in jeans and a heavy Irish sweater, and looked good for a woman who had to be pushing 70. She took the wine from me with a smile and led me into her parlor, where there was some cheese and crackers set up on a table next to a roaring fire. There were photos of children on the mantle above the hearth. The smells coming from the kitchen were promising but I withheld judgment. For all I knew, I was getting muskrat pot pie.

  “Please sit, Mr. Rhode. I’ll open one of these.”

  “I can do that if you like.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of opening a bottle of wine, Mr. Rhode. Besides I want to check on the roast.”

  She went into the kitchen for a few minutes and then returned with the wine and two stem-less wine snifters. She allowed me to pour. The Syrah was excellent and I said so.

  “People make a big fuss over the wines from Oregon and Washington,” she said, “but we have much the same soil and climate.”

  We ate cheese, drank wine and chatted for a while. We were soon Alton and Letty. She was a well-educated and well-read woman, which I should have expected from someone who ran a newspaper for decades. Modest on the outside, the house was surprisingly plush inside, with expensive-looking furniture and carpeting. It turned out that she came from money “back east.” The newspapering started out as a sideline and something to keep her busy. Her husband was a well-paid manager for Crown Zellerbach when that company ran a huge paper and pulp mill in Ocean Falls.

  “We had almost 4,000 residents here in the 1960’s,” she said, “but the population withered after the mill closed in 1980. They offered my Ben a job elsewhere but we loved it here and enough of our old friends stuck around to make it enjoyable. So we stayed, and Ben helped me put out the paper. And to be honest, without the paper mill, which didn’t always smell the best, the area went back to how it must have been a hundred years ago. Now it’s a fishing village and quite beautiful, don’t you think? Of course, it does rain a lot and you have to like the cold.”