Frank hurled the remains of his pie in the trash. “There’s more than one way to abuse a child, Trudy. You know that. Anita neglected Olivia, physically and emotionally. That poor kid subsisted on junk food. Her teeth, her hair…she was skin and bones,” Frank sputtered. “She couldn’t focus in school and the other kids made fun of her. Now look at her. She’s beautiful, and happy, and healthy and getting straight As. She’s smart and creative, and Lucy and Edwin encourage all her interests.” He grabbed Trudy’s arm. “Don’t tell me you’re going to take Olivia away from all that.”
Trudy sighed. “You don’t have to tell me what a great job the Bateses have done as foster parents, Frank. I’m well aware. But severing the biological parental relationship is a huge responsibility. The State doesn’t undertake it lightly.”
“When is Anita getting out? Have you told Edwin and Lucy yet?”
“She’ll be released next Wednesday. I’ll inform them on Monday. But Frank, I need your support on this. That’s why I’m telling you now. I want you to vent to me, not to Edwin and Lucy. Don’t make a bad situation worse.”
“But you said, ‘if she wants to regain custody.’ Do you know if Anita really does want Olivia back? Honestly, Anita didn’t seem too cut up about being separated from her daughter when she was arrested.”
Trudy shrugged. “I can’t predict. It’s true Anita had a very flat affect when I worked with her. But that might be a sign that she also was traumatized by her living situation.”
Frank kicked the trashcan at the end of the buffet table. “Anita was an adult. She didn’t have to live like that. She could have left with Olivia.”
“And who raised Anita? A brutal, ignorant, paranoid old man. Is it any wonder she wasn’t prepared to be a good mother?”
Frank felt a surge of anger toward Trudy, a woman he considered a friend. “I’m tired of these excuses. Where does it end? Anita should be held accountable for what she did to Olivia when she was little.”
“Ah, Frank—life is not so simple. If it were easy for people to make good decisions, there would be no need for social workers like me.”
Chapter 2
On the Monday morning after the party, Earl walked into the office with Doris hot on his heels.
“Doesn’t he look handsome?” the town secretary gushed.
Instead of his usual Carhartt work pants and blue shirt, Earl was wearing a khaki uniform to match Frank’s, with his badge pinned on and his service weapon and handcuffs on his belt. Of course, he’d worn this during the graduation ceremony, but then it had seemed like a dress-up costume. Here in the Trout Run PD office, Earl really did look like a sworn officer. Frank remembered the first day he’d met Earl, nearly five years ago. As an eighteen-year-old, Earl had been scrawny and twitchy with insecurity. He’d bulked up some, although he was still lean, and had shaved off the goofy mustache. Mostly what had changed was his demeanor. Earl now faced the world with a calm confidence. Frank wasn’t sure when or how that transformation had taken place. It had come over Earl gradually, he supposed, but the uniform illuminated the change.
Earl blushed as Doris fussed over him and Frank delivered a salute. But eventually the phone rang and Doris reluctantly returned to her post, and Frank and Earl were left alone at their desks. Frank busied himself reviewing the bulletins that had come in from the state police overnight, while Earl typed an accident report left over from yesterday. A day like any other, but a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop hung over the room. Frank knew he should bring up the matter of Earl’s title and salary, but he couldn’t bear to face the kid’s disappointment.
Unprofessional. He was Earl’s supervisor and bosses often had to make hard decisions. Earl wasn’t his child. The fierce papa bear protectiveness that welled up in him whenever anyone had the audacity to disappoint his daughter in any way was not called for here.
Frank resisted giving Earl the label of “the son I never had.” He and Estelle had been far too young when their daughter Caroline was born. They’d waited five years before trying again…and nothing. They’d visited doctors to no avail, and then simply moved on. He hadn’t been disappointed not to have a son. Caroline was enough for him. Yet he couldn’t deny that Earl was far more than his subordinate.
And just as he’d blamed himself the time Caroline had been passed over for an exclusive exchange student program (surely if her dad had been a corporate big-wig instead of a cop, she’d have been selected), he felt partially responsible for the Town Council’s refusal to promote Earl. He should’ve sucked up to them. For the past two years while Earl was at the academy, he should have been griping about how overworked he was in order to lay the groundwork for this promotion. But he was terrible at playing politics. And now both Earl and he would suffer.
He couldn’t bear to tackle breaking the news today. Maybe tomorrow. Frank stole a furtive glance at Earl. Earl was looking right back at him.
“So?” Earl said.
“So what?”
“Did you get a chance to ask Reid about promoting me?”
Time to rip the Band-Aid off with one quick pull. Still, he couldn’t meet Earl’s eye. He tapped some papers into perfect alignment and stapled them. “Reid said there’s no money in the budget to pay you the market rate for a sworn officer. You’re welcome to stay in your current position, but…..” Frank finally looked up. “I’m sorry, Earl. I tried, I really did. I hate disappointing you after all your hard work.”
Earl pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s what my dad said would happen. No way they’d ever raise taxes to pay my salary.” He heaved a sigh and went back to typing. “Guess I have to put Plan B into effect.”
Earl had a Plan B? That was news. “Which is…?”
“Send in my applications for the Saranac Lake and Lake Placid departments. And Plattsburgh, but that’s not ideal.”
“Do you know if they’re hiring?”
“Lake Placid has two retirements coming up this year. Saranac Lake is expanding since the town got that new hotel and condo complex. One of the guys in my class has a dad who works for Lake Placid, so he’ll get one of those slots. But I figure I have as good a shot as anyone at the other. Will you give me a recommendation?”
Frank ducked his head and coughed. This was no time to let Earl see the tears in his eyes. “Of course I will. I’ll write you the best letter ever. Then I’ll have Penny pump it up.”
Earl grinned. “That oughta put me over the top.”
The mood in the office had lightened. Earl had accepted the news much better than anticipated. It was Frank who still felt morose. Maybe Earl was actually happy to be moving on.
“You know, working in Placid or Saranac…in a bigger department…that could be good experience for you,” Frank said.
“It’ll be different, for sure.”
“Having a new boss, you’ll be exposed to other approaches, other methods.”
“I suppose.” Earl kept typing.
“You’ve probably learned about all you can from me. Time to learn from some younger guys.”
Earl’s gray eyes gazed at him without blinking. “I’d rather stay here. This is the best job in the world. But I knew when I started at the academy that it might end like this. I’m really going to miss you, Frank.”
Frank rose and walked over to Earl’s desk. “I’ll miss you.” He gripped Earl’s shoulder, unable to speak.
Earl spun his swivel chair around. “Geez, Frank—it’s not like I died.”
Feeling that at least one of the burdens weighing on him had lifted, Frank headed out on the morning patrol. Light brushstrokes of chartreuse brightened mountains that had been gray and white for so many months. Still, the wind whipped fiercely. Shirtsleeves were still a long way off. He drove along Route 86 keeping the snow-capped Whiteface in view until, without consciously intending it, he turned and drove slowly past the Iron Eagle Inn. A cheerful spring flag fluttered from a flagpole on the wraparound porch. Edwin had recently touched up the gold pain
t on the eagle soaring on the inn’s wooden sign. Lights glowed in the kitchen. Were Lucy and Edwin happily going about their day oblivious to the bombshell about to explode their world? Or had Trudy already stopped by to shatter their contentment? Frank longed to pull into the drive and let himself into the kitchen as he always did. But if they’d heard the news, he would not be welcome today.
And if they didn’t know yet, he’d never be able to hold the secret.
So he drove on.
Frank took the short cut along High Meadow Road to get back to the center of town. As he came around the blind corner near the North Country Academy, he noticed that the body of the buck that had been hit by a car yesterday no longer lay in the weeds along the shoulder of the road. Frank had reported the road kill to the county public works department, but somehow he doubted they had removed the carcass so promptly. A far more likely scenario: that meaty beast was being ground into venison sausage by Walt Murphy. Murphy’s Wild Venison Sausage had grown from being a local favorite to having a cult following among downstate foodies, and Walt had built himself a nice little sideline to supplement his income as a maintenance foreman for a hotel in Lake Placid. But Walt was hard-pressed to come up with enough deer after hunting season had ended, so Frank suspected he resorted to using fresh road kill. The practice of eating road kill might be unappetizing, but it wasn’t illegal although selling the road kill to unwary customers probably ran afoul of some health code. However, the police chief of Trout Run wasn’t charged with enforcing health regulations, so Frank turned a blind eye to disappearing deer carcasses. Frank supposed the ingredients in Walt’s sausages weren’t any worse than those in supermarket sausages. But he declined to eat them anyway.
Thinking about sausages made Frank hungry, so he decided to stop at Malone’s for lunch. A nice beefy smell wafted out to him as he climbed the steps to the diner. Stew, meatloaf, pot roast? Whatever the special, it had attracted quite a crowd for a Monday in the off-season. Customers filled every table, so Frank took a seat at the counter in hopes that Marge Malone would spoon him up a bowl of beef stew as she passed. But Marge lumbered by three times without making eye contact, bearing armloads of plates for a large, noisy group who had commandeered three pushed-together Formica tables.
“A man oughta be able to do what he wants with his own land,” someone said with greater volume than was necessary to be heard.
“Well, if you had a view of the covered bridge, you wouldn’t want it blocked by a McMansion,” a woman shot back.
“Who’s that group in the corner?” Frank asked the man next to him.
“Monthly meeting of the High Peaks Historical Society.”
“Kinda rowdy for a bunch of historians, wouldn’t you say?” Frank twisted around to see a large, gray-haired woman stand up and tap her water glass with a knife to command attention.
“Please! We’re here to plan our participation in the John Brown Farm reenactment. This discussion of Adirondack Park Authority regulations is totally off the agenda.”
“Last month, they argued for an hour over whether it was okay to wear modern underwear under their Civil War uniforms,” Rollie Fister said under his breath as he took the stool on the other side of Frank. “At least today’s argument is worth having.”
As the manager of Venable’s Hardware and a hopeless gossip, Rollie always knew the scuttlebutt around town. Frank had only to raise his eyebrows to get Rollie to elaborate.
“The APA has made a final decision. They’re not going to let the Gatrells sell part of their land to that luxury vacation home developer guy. Some people think Ronnie oughta be able to do what he likes with his land. Other people,” Rollie glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice, “don’t want their own view of Stony Brook ruined.”
“Forever wild!” someone at Historical Society table called out.
Rollie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Fine for him to say. If I was a retired schoolteacher livin’ off a fat pension, I wouldn’t want any big, fancy houses built either. But those new houses would have brought some money and jobs into Trout Run.”
Frank let the “fat pension” remark slide although he doubted anyone retired from the High Peaks school district was living large. “Refresh my memory. Who’s Ronnie Gatrell? Where is this land?”
“Ronnie and Pam live just over the town line in Verona. He’s got more than a hundred acres along the brook there. Land’s been in his family since the first loggers came up here in the 1830s. They logged, and when the trees were gone, they farmed. But you know this land’s no good for that, so then Ronnie’s grandfather and father ran a metalworking shop, but there’s not much call for that these days.”
“So what does Ronnie do for a living?”
Marge crashed two cups of coffee down in front of them. “Ronnie Gatrell? He’s doing something different every time you talk to him. You ready?”
Frank ordered the stew. He knew better than to ask if it would take long. Marge seemed particularly testy today, and requests like that would likely get him sent to the bottom of the queue.
“Marge is right,” Rollie continued after she’d disappeared onto the kitchen. “Ronnie’s always got some new plan. He’s a damn fine carpenter, but you can’t tell him anything. Doesn’t understand the whole ‘customer is always right’ thing. You can’t get repeat business with that attitude.”
“So he wants to sell off some of his land?”
“Yep. Leon Shelby set up a deal to sell off some prime lots to this high-end developer. Woulda given Ronnie enough cash to live off forever, I guess. But the APA just put the kibosh on the deal. Obstructing the view of a scenic waterway—that’s a no-go for those guys.”
Marge hurled silverware and napkins in their direction, a promising development. Then she paused in front of a young woman with long braids and a pierced lip who kept opening and flipping her menu as if she expected it to sprout another page.
“Ready?” Marge asked.
“Do you have any gluten-free items?”
Marge rested her hands on her ample hips. “Bacon and eggs with hash-browns. I’ll leave off the toast at no charge.”
“I’m vegan?” The girl spoke in that plaintive, questioning voice that begged for parody.
Frank and Rollie stirred their coffee, waiting.
“Does the barley soup have meat in it?”
Here it came. Five…four…three…two….
“Of course it has beef in it! How the hell can I make a good barley soup without boiling short-rib bones?” Marge turned her back on the girl. “You want that organic tofu quinoa stuff, you go down to those fancy-ass cafes in Keene.”
Marge kicked open the swing-door into the kitchen, leaving the stunned girl still clutching her menu. Rollie took pity. “Don’t take it personal. Marge is a little crabby because one of the waitresses called in sick. You could get a tossed salad. I’ll ask her to put some chick peas on it for you.”
The girl shook her head, slid off her stool, and scampered out the door.
Rollie watched her go. “Who the hell was that, anyway?”
Chapter 3
Frank emerged from the diner contentedly full, but still shaking his head at Marge’s treatment of the vegan girl. Marge could certainly be prickly, but she usually saved her tart remarks for the regulars. The diner needed hikers, skiers and fishermen to stay afloat, and Marge was too smart a businesswoman to alienate tourists. Besides, he was quite sure he’d seen three-bean chili and veggie lasagna on the menu in the high season, so Marge wasn’t above catering to her customers’ preferences even if she didn’t share them. Something else must’ve set her off today, and that poor girl had found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As Frank crossed the green he saw Earl standing in front of The Store talking to two teenage boys who stood with their heads hanging, scuffing the dirt with their oversized sneakers. What could this be about?
He came up to the group in time to hear Earl say, “I’m just giving you a warning thi
s time and I’m going to call your parents. But I better not catch you stealing anything again, or you’ll get a summons and have to appear in front of the magistrate. Understand?”
The boys nodded.
“All right. Get on back to school, then.”
Catching sight of Frank, they hopped on their bikes and took off in a blur.
“What was that all about?”
“Patty saw them in the mirror stuffing candy and soda in their pockets.” Earl straightened his hat. “She called and I came right over.”
“Why didn’t you call me? You knew I was right next door in the diner.”
“I took care of it. You wouldn’t have done anything different.”
True enough. But that was beside the point. “Shoplifting is not the same as speeding. If someone in this town is committing a crime, however small, I need to handle it.”
Earl threw back his shoulders. “Why? I’m a sworn officer doing the job I’ve been training to do for two years. Aren’t you sounding just like the state police when they say you should turn every case over to them instead of managing yourself?”
They glared at each other for a moment. Then Frank’s fierce glower dissolved into a chuckle. Adjusting to Earl being a sworn officer was going to require a shift in his habits. “Okay, you made your point. Just promise me that in the unlikely event we have a murder before you go off to Saranac or Placid, you’ll call me in on it.”
“Deal.”
Chapter 4
“You knew! You knew this was happening, and you didn’t even warn me!” Edwin Bates had just slammed the door to Frank’s office and turned the lock for good measure. He loomed over Frank’s desk, his dark hair tangled, his eyes blazing.
“The police are always advised when a prisoner on probation is released in the community. I wanted to tell you right away myself, but Trudy insisted the news would be better coming from her. She’s in a better position to answer your questions.” Even though he’d been agonizing over Anita’s release since the graduation party, Frank went into defensive mode in response to Edwin’s attack. Thank God Earl was out getting a snack. Frank didn’t need a witness to this showdown.
False Cast: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 5) Page 2
