Dial Marr for Murder

by Karen Cantwell

  I wrote that down on my list of things to ask Eric.

  Moyle needed representation. I wrote out a label for him and chose a cow to play his role. With Moyle on the board, I couldn’t forget POGO Labs. Farmer Joe’s house would be the mysterious Long Island entity.

  I moved Bernie’s sheep and Ed’s piece beside it. I set Moyle’s piece there as well, but a little off to the side. I didn’t want to lump him in with the two people I suspected most of the murder, but he’d linked himself to them and POGO Labs by his own admission. Also, I hated to even go there, but I couldn’t rule Moyle out as a suspect. He was large and strong enough to have done the killing.

  I’d argue to my dying day that Moyle wasn't the murdering type, but his only motive would be the thin conspiracy theory that Moyle was a Ghost Kid with a vendetta against those who were responsible for his condition.

  They were all there except those ruled out entirely as suspects by the police already: Bunny Bergen, her boyfriend and lead naturalist, Tate Kilbourn.

  Everyone else had called in sick that day and their alibis had been confirmed.

  Wait a minute. There was a volunteer that was not on my table. In the picture, but not on the table. Sharon Forrest. Bunny had told me that all of the volunteers had called in sick that day. But Sharon had been at my front door before sunrise complaining about Vito Corleone, the duck. She hadn’t been sick. Neither was Helen or Del. It was likely that Bernie wasn't sick either. And while he was now dead, I’d take a big leap of faith and guess that Pickle himself probably hadn’t been sick either.

  And why in the world had Sharon Forrest been standing outside of the Nature Center, ready and willing to be interviewed, if she was unable to be there helping with the Halloween Walk decorations?

  Suddenly, I was seeing this as a much bigger picture. Could it be? Could all of the volunteers be in on this? Could Pickle’s murder have been a group plot? My heart began to race and my palms sweat. I needed to talk to Eric, and I needed to do it right away.

  “Morning, Mommy!”

  I shrieked, coming out of my thoughts with a jolt.

  Amber screamed. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  I grabbed my heart. “Nothing sweetie, I just didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Why are you playing with my Farmer Joe toys?”

  “No reason. They just looked so, you know, fun.”

  She craned her neck to read one of my notes. “Someone killed Farmer Joe? What kind of sick fun is this, Mommy?”

  I scooted her off to the family room couch. “Why don’t you go watch some TV?”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll bring you a bowl of cereal.”

  After getting Amber’s cereal, I called Bunny. “Bunny, how are you feeling?”

  “Much better. How about you?”

  “I’m better too. Quick recovery. Hey, speaking of the flu, here’s my real reason for calling. Not that I don’t love you, and we really should do lunch soon when you’re all recovered, but think back to the morning of the Halloween Walk. You called me for help.”

  “Right. None of my volunteers were showing up.”

  “You told me they all had the flu.”

  “Let me think,” Bunny said.

  “Did any of them call in saying they were sick?”

  “You know, I don’t think so. Tate’s two junior naturalists had called in sick. But none of the volunteers had come in either.” Bunny paused. “I remember I called Helen first. She didn’t pick up. I thought maybe she was on her way. She doesn’t have a cell phone. Del didn’t pick up either. Or Bernie. When I complained to Olga, she wondered if they had the flu that was going around.”

  “So, no one actually called you to say they were sick?”

  “No. Oh my gosh! Did I stall a murder mystery case by giving bad information?”

  “Bunny, you had no idea when you called me that I was going to find a dead man by the Nature Center Pond. Don’t worry. But I have a favor to ask. Can I run by and get your key to the Nature Center? I promise I’ll bring it back.”

  Bunny trusted me to shoot her in the foot to save her life, so trusting me with the Nature Center key wasn’t even a stretch.

  I dialed Eric and asked him if he was feeling well enough to meet me at the Nature Center, because I had a theory I wanted to run by him. He mumbled something about me not being a police detective, but said he’d shower and meet me there in thirty minutes.

  Having just woken up, Howard padded into the kitchen. He was groggy, and wanted coffee. I showed him my murder scene recreation and told him I was heading out to meet Eric at the Nature Center.

  He stared at the scene intently. “Interesting. Mind if I tag along?” he asked. It seemed that piecing a puzzle of a murder together woke Howard up faster than a caffeine rush.

  “Sure. I’ll tell Bethany we’re going out for a while.” I snapped my fingers at him. “But hurry and get dressed, man. We don’t have all day.”

  “It’s morning. By definition, we have all day.”

  “I know.” I patted his cheek playfully. “I just like the way that sounded.”

  After getting the key from Bunny, we let ourselves into the Nature Center and went straight to Olga’s desk where I snatched up the volunteer group photo.

  We heard Eric coming in and met him as he came down the hallway. He was pale and the circles under his eyes aged him terribly. “This had better be good,” he said, coughing.

  “Eric, you sound like you’re dying.”

  “I’ll go to the hospital when we’re done here.” He grimaced and crossed his arms. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “I think I can explain better down at the pond.”

  Eric cocked his head at me. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He gave Howard a sideways glance. “Do you know what she’s up to?”

  Howard lifted one shoulder. “Not exactly. I’m hoping it doesn’t involve farm animals.”

  We made our way to the path and down to the pond. I showed Eric the picture. I pointed to Pickle. “He’s the dead man.”

  “Good. Case solved. I knew there was something I missed.”

  His sarcasm was almost amusing. “You’re awfully smart-alecky for such a sick dude.” I pointed to Ed Sigmund. “That’s Ed Sigmund, the man we now know faked his own death. He tried to kidnap me yesterday.”

  “Congratulations for averting that by the way,” Eric said.

  “You can thank Colt.” I pointed to Bernie Ford. “That’s Bernie who went missing after the murder. I believe Bernie, Ed, and Pickle all worked together at a top secret military research facility in Long Island, New York.”

  “You believe?” Eric raised his brows. “You mean, you don’t know for sure?”

  “Top secret, Eric, did you not hear me?”

  “Actually,” a voice rang out from a bend in the path, “we do know for sure they were all employed by POGO Labs.”

  Howard, Eric and I turned to see Colt and Vikki.

  “Turns out,” Colt said, thumbing toward his girlfriend, “a thriller writer is also a darn good researcher.”

  “POGO Labs is this top secret facility in Long Island?” Eric asked, cocking one brow.

  “In theory no, they’re different entities,” Vikki explained. “But in reality, they are one and the same. Fort Pond is the military installation, joint forces, but largely Navy in population. POGO, also known as Pond Oceanic and Geological Operations Labs, is a consulting company. In the nineteen-eighties, though, POGO was so deeply entwined in Fort Pond’s operations that they practically operated as one unit. Both Fort Pond and POGO eventually came under federal scrutiny for fraudulent activity.”

  Colt turned to me. “That tattoo on Ed Sigmund’s hand identifies him as a boatswain’s mate. In his early days as a naval sailor, he maintained the upkeep of boats. He was stationed at Fort Pond for a period of time, retired from the Navy, and was then immediately hired by POGO, where it appears, he worked entirely onsite at Fort Pond.”

  “
And not just Ed,” Vikki added. “Colt and I were able to link all three of them, Bernadette Elizabeth Ford, Richard Elijah Pickleseimer, and Edmund Francis Sigmund to POGO from nineteen seventy-eight to nineteen eighty-six.”

  “This assumed top secret research project,” Eric took the photograph from me and studied it. “You think it’s related to the murder? Bernie and Ed?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” I answered. “Ed faked his death for some reason. And he wanted to kidnap me for another reason. Yesterday, Bernie came to my house when I wasn’t there, and then I saw her again outside Fiorenza’s. I’m sure she wanted to tell me something, but she was scared off.”

  “What scared her away?” Eric looked up from the picture toward me.

  Howard started to laugh again. I shot him an evil eye.

  Eric was confused. “What’s so funny?”

  I rolled my eyes. “A few people wanted my autograph. The whole hashtag and rap song thing.”

  “Swarming fans was how she described it last night,” Howard said in between chuckles.

  “Back to my theory,” I said, turning my back to him and crossing my arms in a huff. “You may ask, why would Ed and Bernie come after me? Maybe because I know Moyle. Moyle confided in me that he has been dreaming about the group and that he can’t get the letters POGO out of his head. He’s obsessed.”

  Eric rubbed his temples. “You think Moyle has some connection to this lab too.”

  “Right.” I nodded at Eric. “I grabbed the photo out of Eric’s hand and held it up for everyone to see. “That’s Helen Moyer, who ran off just before I found Pickle’s body.” I turned to Eric. “That’s Del Rowenhorst. She came in during your initial investigation and confessed to the murder. You said that you didn’t arrest her because she couldn’t have committed the crime the way she said she did.”

  “You think she did it?” Howard asked me.

  “Not exactly. The final volunteer in the picture. Sharon Forrest.” I stabbed at her image, rattling the photo paper.

  “That’s the lady from next door,” Howard said.

  “Yeah. Real estate flipper and pain in my patootie. Where was she after the murder? Not sick with the flu. Not at House of Many Bones overseeing the renovation” I gestured toward the path that led up to the Nature Center building. “She was across the street from the Nature Center. conveniently ready to be on camera and ruin my life with her That Barbara Marr comment.”

  “To be fair,” Colt interrupted, “wasn’t it Guy Mertz who ruined your life?”

  “Where are you going with this?” Eric asked me.

  “All of these volunteers you see in this picture, except Ed Sigmund who was believed to be dead, had promised Bunny Bergen they would be here on the morning of the Halloween Walk to help with decorations.”

  “You told me they all had the flu,” said Howard.

  “That’s what Bunny told me.”

  “Why would Bunny lie about that?” Colt asked.

  “She didn’t lie, she assumed,” Eric said, beginning to follow my logic.

  “Exactly. In fact, not one of them had called Bunny to say that they weren’t coming in, much less give a reason why.”

  Eric considered that for a moment. “You think they’re all involved in killing Pickleseimer?”

  “I think they all know who killed Pickle and all had reasons why they didn’t want to provide the information.” I had confidence in my theory. Kind of sort of anyway. Now, if I could only prove it.

  “But Del Rowenhorst did confess,” Colt pointed out.

  “And Del Rowenhorst is one smart cookie. She’s hiding something for or about Helen. I think Del was throwing the scent off Helen by making that confession and trying hard to look like a silly old woman.” I went into deeper detail about my run-in with Del, and the lie that Helen had family members who wanted to put her into a home. I also mentioned that Olga had identified Helen’s car as the vehicle seen speeding away from her house right after we discovered Moyle had disappeared.

  “Think about it,” I concluded. “All of these people were well-acquainted and spent time together here at the Nature Center. What if they had decided to meet, say for coffee or breakfast, before coming to the Nature Center for what they assumed would be an ordinary day of set up for the annual Halloween Walk? Then, what if something went wrong?”

  Eric zipped up his jacket and stuck his hands in the pockets. “That’s a big assumption. But the fact none of them had the flu and yet didn’t arrive for volunteering as promised—that’s more than interesting.”

  “There are a lot of unanswered questions,” I agreed. “But I think the road map is there. And someone had better get hopping. Any minute, Guy Mertz is going to show up ready to blame the police department for not caring about Pickle’s death because Pickle was an old man.”

  Leaves rustled on the path under the steps of someone approaching. “Are my ears burning?” Guy Mertz asked, utilizing his signature umbrella as a walking stick. “Did someone say my name?”

  Great. Guy Mertz, crime reporter, had just turned Guy Mertz, professional eavesdropper.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Of course, Guy’s proposed news exposé was news to Eric. Needless to say, he wasn’t happy. “Guy, why are you doing this to me? We’ve always been on good terms.”

  “Homicides are down. I know this should be a good thing, but viewers watch the news expecting excitement. You know that. It certainly isn’t personal, Detective LaMon.”

  I handed Eric the address where I’d found Del Rowenhorst and Helen Moyer. “I guess you want this.”

  He took the small square paper, nodded, then glanced at Colt and Vikki. “Officially, I’m not asking for your help; but unofficially, if you were to find all you can about Sharon Forrest and report your findings to me, I wouldn’t stop you.”

  “I’ll consider it good research for future books,” Vikki said.

  “Guy,” Eric said, turning his attention to the news reporter. “Can I ask you to hold off a couple of hours?”

  “My news crew is here now,” Guy said.

  “Guy,” I urged him. “Come on, you’re better than this.”

  “Fine.” Guy sniffed. “I’ll see what other story I can pick up. It is so difficult being a nice guy in this dog-eat-dog world of journalism”

  Eric patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you.” He took two steps up the path, but was stopped by a wracking fit of coughs.

  “Come into the Nature Center with me,” I told him. “I’ll get you some water first.”

  We all traversed the path back up to the Nature Center. I took Eric in through the back door while the others walked around the building to meet in the front parking lot. I grabbed Eric a bottle of water from the fridge and returned Olga’s photograph. The water helped calm Eric’s cough. Exiting the front door, we joined Howard, Colt, and Vikki. Guy was crossing toward the news truck parked on the street when a blue Prius tore into the gravel parking lot and screeched to a stop directly in front of him.

  Dust billowed around Guy. “What mad driver is this?” he shouted.

  The Prius door opened and out climbed tiny little Bernie Ford. She wore jeans, white sneakers and a blue sweatshirt that read World’s Greatest Grandma. Her arms wrapped around a metal pressure cooker. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. “Mr. Mertz,” she said, shaking all over like a feeble twig in the wind, “I want you to put me on camera. I have something to tell the world.”

  For good reason, Guy appeared confused. He didn’t know Bernie Ford from Gerald Ford.

  “Bernie,” I said, stepping toward them. “What do you have there?”

  “You know this woman?” Guy asked me.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Eric maneuver a hand slowly under his jacket. He must have had a concealed weapon at the ready, but I wasn’t sure what danger a pressure cooker presented. Howard, Colt, and Vikki were on my other side, motionless, watching the scene unfold with wide, wary eyes.

  I could see the wheels turning beh
ind Guy’s eyes. He understood something big was up. “Something to tell the world,” he said slowly. He slid a glance to the news truck on the road in front of the Center. His cameraman stared into the sky.

  Guy whistled and successfully caught the cameraman's attention. “Did you think we might talk over a bowl of soup, madame?”

  “Not until the cameras are running,” she said, her terror-stricken gaze darting around at all of us. “And it’s not soup. This is my guarantee that you’ll listen.”

  Uh-oh. I took three giant steps backward.

  Bernie Ford didn’t come bearing food. She brought a bomb in a pressure cooker.

  Howard advanced, shielding my body.

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Eric told her. “There are a lot of innocent people here. This can be handled without violence.”

  Putting himself between Vikki and the danger, Colt whipped out his phone and began texting.

  Guy’s eyes widened. He must have just realized that she was literally a walking explosion. Despite his sudden pallor, he managed another loud whistle to the cameraman idling near their news van. The operator hoisted his saggy jeans, and hefted the camera, oblivious to the danger.

  “Yes,” Guy said, regaining his composure. Guy was nothing if not a dedicated news man. “The detective is correct. You don’t need implements of destruction to gain my attention. If you set the cooker down, I will bring you a nice cup of tea. I keep a thermos in my van over there. And I will give you all of the air time you need.”

  Rather than set the pressure cooker down, she gripped it tighter. “I don’t want any tea and I don’t know what you mean about violence.” She shook the cooker. “I want to tell the truth, that’s all.”

  We all flinched at her violent handling of the cooker. It didn’t explode and we were all still alive.

  “What do you have in that pot, ma’am?” Eric asked her.

  “The truth. What did you think?”

  Guy stood a little straighter. “The truth? The truth about what?”