“The letter might be worth more than the washstand,” I said. “Are you planning to sell them? My friend Kathy Brasheler volunteers at Orchard House. I’m sure they’d want it back.”
“Oh no. We couldn’t let that go. I just like to show it to people.”
“It’s a wonderful piece.”
We walked through a family room. A locked glass gun case, holding two rifles, stood against one wall. Betty saw me looking at it.
“My husband is part of the Bedford Minuteman Company. He’s a descendant of one of the original Bedford minutemen. The smoothbore musket on the left is supposedly original to the family. It was used on the first day of the Revolution. Can you imagine those soldiers lugging those things around? They weigh over ten pounds.”
What Betty called a musket looked more like a rifle to me. In my mind, muskets were the things Pilgrims carried around that ended in a round shape, like a trumpet. What a difference from the fast-firing weapons our troops carried.
“It must have taken them a long time to load and fire those,” I said.
“An expert can do it in about fifteen to twenty seconds.”
“I’ve read they aren’t very accurate.”
“You always hear that. More often than not, it was smoke from all of the muskets firing that made it difficult to be accurate—not the musket itself. They’re fairly accurate, to about eighty yards.”
“What caliber are they?” I asked.
“Seventy-four, but they used a sixty-nine-caliber musket ball. Since the ball is smaller than the barrel, they had to stuff some paper down into it, with the gunpowder and ball. Then they tamped it in with a rod. Do you shoot?” Betty asked.
“I have.” Since we had guns in our house, CJ had taught me how to use them.
“I could have my husband take you out sometime. Of course, they use blanks during the Patriots’ Day events.” She pointed to a glass jar filled with bits of metal. “That’s what a blank can do to an aluminum can. My husband keeps it around to make sure our grandkids respect what guns can do.
“The other musket is a replica—the one he uses for official events like the Battle Road Demonstration next Saturday. He’s hoping for good weather. The flintlocks don’t fire well in rain. He’s also hoping it isn’t too hot, because marching around, holding a heavy musket in an itchy wool outfit, isn’t fun.”
I enjoyed the reenactment, but I never thought about the details like worrying if it was raining or not. I spent the next couple of hours moving stuff to the shed. I stopped back over at the house before I left. “I’ll be back tomorrow to move more and start pricing. I’m going to need some help moving some of the bigger things from the garage to the shed.”
“I’ll get my husband to help with that. Will we be okay for next weekend?”
“Don’t you want to go with your husband to the reenactment?”
“He goes to enough events every year that he won’t miss me at one. I won’t mind having a good excuse for missing one.”
Lincoln, Lexington, and Concord all had annual festivities next weekend. Ellington would promote its original Revolutionary War sketch and oil painting by its native son Patrick West. West purportedly made the sketch at the end of the day after the minutemen had chased the Regulars back to Boston. It wasn’t as big a draw as the parades and reenactments in the other three towns. Bedford’s big event had been yesterday, although their minuteman company would participate in many of the events next weekend, too. “With some well-placed ads and flyers, and all of your antiques, it will go well.”
After a huge helping of ziti, I went to bed early. As I started to drift off to sleep, music blared through the wall. My bedroom adjoined Tyler’s next door. Tonight, of all nights, Tyler finally decided to have a party, the night I really needed to sleep. It sounded like people were dancing. In the bedroom. Oh, geez, I hoped it was dancing. I grabbed my comforter and took it out to the couch. At least the noise was quieter out here.
Last night CJ told me to leave town. Was it because of Lexi? Thinking of CJ with Lexi made me think of him and Tiffany. I tried to get images of them out of my head. He’d said he didn’t love her. It was a one-off. There was only me in his heart. He’d betrayed me and I’d been stupid for trusting him. It made me question what really happened on the long months of his deployments, on all of those TDYs—temporary-duty assignments—business trips in the civilian world. I thought again about the night I’d gone to the bar in Lowell.
Seth had grabbed my hand just as I walked out the door. His hand was warm in mine, soft and strong at the same time. CJ’s was always a bit rougher, more calloused.
No, I am not going to think about CJ.
“We haven’t even danced yet.” Seth linked his fingers through mine, tugging me toward the dance floor. I resisted.
“That’s better than your first line,” I said.
He grinned.
I shrugged. Why not? It would give me a little more time to get the alcohol out of my system.
“Was that a yes?”
I smiled. I loved to dance, and it had been a long time. “Yes.”
Our dance had turned into many. Drinks appeared like magic in my hand. The next morning, Seth drove us from his place back to my car. The morning had been beyond awkward, even though Seth had done his best to smooth over my obvious discomfort. He offered me breakfast, a toothbrush, a comb. He was practiced at the “morning after,” unlike me. I turned down all three.
Seth pulled up behind my Suburban, still parked across from the bar. He leaned over the console and gave me one last, incredible, nerve-thrumming kiss.
“Good night?” He stroked a piece of my blond hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. He expected a “yes,” as he had last night when he asked me to dance.
“It was okay.”
Seth leaned back, eyes wide.
“That’s your best parting line?” I asked, smiling.
He laughed. “It’s a good exit line.”
I climbed out of the car, but I turned back and leaned down. “Great night.” I closed the door and walked back to my car. Seth stayed until I was in and had it started. Then he roared around me with a toot of his horn.
I smiled as I started my car. This was the new me, an independent woman. I glanced in the rearview mirror. My smile faded. Mascara was smudged under my eyes. My hair was wild. It looked like it had been teased, but not brushed out. I tried to smush it down. As I drove home, I felt doubts bubble up.
I didn’t know Seth’s last name. I wasn’t sure he even knew my first name. He’d called me a generic “babe” all night. And this morning? My stomach started to feel queasy. We hadn’t even made a pretense of exchanging numbers or promises to call each other.
I pulled into my parking space and did the “walk of shame”—walking into the house in the same clothes I’d left in last night. I hoped my neighbors didn’t notice or care. As I showered, I realized I cared. I sat on my couch, cuddled in a quilt, gazing out over the town common. I’d curled up on the couch and thought about who I wanted to be.
A few days later, Seth called. At some point during the night, I’d either given him my number or he’d taken it off my phone. He called me almost every night for the next week. We chatted, flirted a bit, but I always turned him down when he asked to get together.
The next week, I sat home, reading a magazine. I flipped a page and there was a picture of Seth, in a tux, leaning against a lamppost in the North End. The caption read, Seth Anderson, Massachusetts’s Most Eligible Bachelor. I read the accompanying article. He was from an old Massachusetts family whose friends included the Kennedys, Krafts, and Kerrys. He’d grown up in swanky Beacon Hill and had the requisite family compound on Nantucket Island.
He’d recently broken up with his Victoria’s Secret model girlfriend. I Googled her. The online articles said she’d dumped him; and from what I could tell, it was only a couple of days before I met him in Lowell.
I’m the rebound girl?
If that t
roubled me, it got even worse. For me, not for Seth. Right after the breakup, Seth was appointed as the new district attorney of Middlesex County, to replace the ailing DA until the next election. The magazine article said he’d vowed to work closely with law enforcement, not only in the bigger cities like Lowell, but also in the small communities of the county. That meant Seth would work closely with CJ.
After that, I quit answering his calls and texts.
All of this was why I had refused when Carol suggested CJ could check my phone records to find out who was making the gunshot calls.
I hated that Pellner somehow knew about my night in Lowell. Even more, I hated picturing CJ and Seth working together, and Pellner watching them.
The music from Tyler’s apartment finally stopped. I grabbed my comforter and pillow and went back to bed.
My phone rang at five on Monday morning. I patted my hand around, searching for my phone, worried it might be another gunshot call. I’d told myself repeatedly that someone—a very cruel someone—was trying to scare me with the calls. Nothing more. Their strategy obviously worked, or I wouldn’t be sitting here deciding whether or not to answer the phone. Screw them. They weren’t going to dictate my life. The number was blocked. I answered, anyway.
“This is Pellner.”
What new torture had he thought up now?
“Chief’s been brought in for questioning. For some reason, he’s asking for you.”
He disconnected before I said a word.
CHAPTER 17
Thirty minutes later, I sat in the lobby of the Ellington Police Station. Cool air circulated in the lobby like icy fingers caressing my skin. I’d rushed out of the house so quickly I’d forgotten a jacket or sweater. It was amazing I’d remembered to shove my feet in a pair of boots. I tucked my jeans into my boots as I waited. I smoothed my hair back from my face. I hadn’t taken the time to brush it before leaving.
Police officers buzzed back and forth. Phones rang. It was a lot of activity for this early in the morning. What had happened that made them bring CJ in for questioning? Maybe he’d told them about the bloody shirts. He should have let me know what he was planning before he took any action. Would I be questioned, too?
I couldn’t imagine seeing CJ behind bars or handcuffed to a table in an interview room. Although, as recently as a couple of weeks ago, I’d delighted in imagining him in this exact scenario. This week had taught me the hard reality between fantasy and real life.
The officers who walked by threw me scathing looks, which made me cringe. I stood up, straightening my shoulders. I told the officer behind the window, “I want to see CJ. Now.”
A door opened on the other side of the lobby. Pellner stood there, looking bigger than usual. “Come with me.”
I followed him down a corridor, past CJ’s office. We were in the opposite side of the building than the interview rooms or cells. Pellner unlocked a door on the right side of the hall. CJ sat behind a bare-topped desk in a small, unused office. The only other thing in the room was a folding chair. No two-way mirror, no cameras, and no tape recorders.
CJ had stubble on his usually clean-shaven face. Not the sexy, trimmed Hollywood kind, but the “rushed out of the house” kind. He was dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white striped rugby shirt. The shirt was almost identical to the one I’d slept in all those years ago.
“You sure about this, Chief?” Pellner asked.
“Yes. Thanks, Scott.”
The door closed behind me. I heard the snick of the lock.
“What’s this about? Pellner said you’d been brought in for questioning. Why?”
“Someone called a tip into the station around three this morning. Told them about the bloody clothes in the back of my car. Two officers came to my door. I opened my trunk and showed them it was empty.” He tipped his chair back on two legs, something I’d always asked him not to do with our antique dining-room chairs. “I had to tell them at that point. The bag was in my basement. I handed it over.”
“What a mess. I guess I’m next then.”
“No. I didn’t tell them you were involved. I won’t tell them.”
“But—”
“No buts about this. I said I found them when I was going through bags and boxes in the basement last night, and that I was bringing them in this morning.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
He dropped his chair back down to all four legs. “Listen to me. If you tell them otherwise, it will look worse for me. Me lying to my own guys. You have to go along with this. It’s why I asked to see you.”
His words weighed on me like a stack of cement blocks.
“Do they know it’s Tiffany?” I asked.
“They measured the bones. Females have rounder chins than males, smaller bones. They know it’s a female about her size. Jessica’s head wound and the one on the skull are similar. They’re fairly certain the same weapon was used for both crimes.”
This was bad, very bad. “It’s all circumstantial.”
“Pellner asked me what the ruckus was at your house the Sunday you found the clothes. He’s suspicious. I stuck with my story that I was late and you were worried.”
“Someone knows, CJ. Someone must have seen you put the bag in your car.”
“None of the evidence proves Tiffany’s dead. They haven’t gotten the DNA back yet. They can only hold me for six hours. Then they have to let me go or arrest me and have me arraigned.”
“If they were at your house at three, that means by nine they’ll have made that decision.”
“They searched the house before bringing me here. They’ll release me soon. In the meantime, I’m stuck in here. It’s better than a cell.”
“What will happen if you’re arraigned?” I asked. “Will they bring you back here?”
“Ellington used to be part of the county jail system. The facility is too old now. We don’t have enough cells. People who are arrested and arraigned are sent to either Billerica or Cambridge.”
“They can’t do that to you. Why aren’t the results of the DNA test back? Bristow told me all military personnel had a sample stored somewhere.”
“This isn’t the highest priority. The embassy bombing last month and helicopter crash in Guam come first. It’s not as simple a process. Sixty days is fast. Six months in the civilian world.”
“What about Jessica? Did they question you about her death?”
“No. They will soon enough.”
“Do you need me to find you a lawyer? Angelo DiNapoli told me he has a cousin who’s a defense attorney.”
“Thanks. I’ve got it covered. He should be here soon. The last thing I need is Angelo’s Mob cousin defending me.”
Angelo’s cousin is in the Mob?
Boston had a reputation about the Mob and crime families, but it always seemed more fictional than real. Even with the Whitey Bulger case.
“Sarah, I’ve been thinking about all this. You have to be careful. The bags were planted in your car. That person knew I transferred them to mine. Someone knew exactly when you’d be on base. So they have access to Fitch. I’m going to ask Pellner to make sure someone’s driving by your house more often than usual.”
I wanted to protest. The last thing I needed was more police presence in my life. I pictured being harassed for light pollution, noise, and whatever other trumped-up charges the very creative Ellington Police Department could come up with. But I didn’t want to burden CJ with anything else when he was going to extreme lengths to protect me.
“It’s not necessary. This is Ellington, after all. Everything happened on base.”
“It will make me feel better,” CJ said.
How can I argue with that?
CJ leaned forward, taking my hand. “You have to promise me that you won’t tell the true story about the shirts. You have to take it to your grave. Otherwise, when I get out of here, no one will ever trust me again.”
“Okay. I promise.” I drew my hand back. CJ’s touch still sent a zin
g up my spine—no matter how much I didn’t want that.
“I need you to do something for me. Lexi’s at my house. Would you go over—”
“You want me to go to your house to talk to your girlfriend? No.”
“Lexi’s not my girlfriend.”
“I don’t care what you call her or what she is. I won’t do it.”
I saw a spark in his eye for a second that showed me the old CJ, not the world-weary version I’d observed since our divorce.
“Lexi’s a dog. I dog-sat for two weeks for an officer on leave. Pellner thought I looked lonely. Said I needed the company.”
Pellner had gotten me again.
“The owner’s coming to pick her up this morning. Can you meet her at nine? Everyone here is busy trying to help me get out of this mess.”
I hoped they were trying to help him. “Sure. What else can I do?”
“Interesting that you’re upset at the thought of me having a girlfriend.”
“Bloody shirts upset me. Murderers on the loose upset me. What you do with your personal time? I don’t care.” I stood up, pounding on the door to be let out.
After a shower, I made breakfast, the official state sandwich of Massachusetts, a Fluffernutter. I put equal amounts of Marshmallow Fluff and peanut butter on white bread. Massachusetts is renowned for the Revolutionary War, Plymouth Rock, the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, and its colleges and universities. The state also had many other achievements: Marshmallow Fluff (still made with the original recipe, not only vegan but also kosher), Oliver Chase’s lozenge cutter (the first American candy machine), and the Necco candy company (famous for its wafers—thanks to the lozenge cutter—and candy conversation hearts).
The sandwich was gooey, with the right combination of sweet and salty. It was just what my stressed psyche needed. While I cleaned up the kitchen, I decided to pay a call on Special Agent Bristow. Thus fortified in mind and stomach, I left the house and soon stood in front of Agent Bristow’s desk.
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