I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1) Page 7

  He asked Lou if Detective Salvadore, who he been working with, would be ‘pissed-off’ because of not being included. The chief replied in the negative, the reason being that “the venue was not within Salvadore’s jurisdiction.” The chief also added that he had left Salvadore in charge of the police detail at the parade, which included the following ceremony, an assignment that was “well suited to him.” Inspector Chace nodded in acceptance with a wry smile as he diverted his gaze out the passenger side window. Glancing over, Chief Devaro noticed the smile in a reflection from the cruiser window.

  After a fifteen minute drive into Sheffield they arrived at the Town Office Building.

  Sheffield was a sparsely populated agricultural town abutting East Wayford on its northeast border. The town had several appointed constables but the State Police maintained a regular police patrol presence there.

  “Hey Doc, how have you been?” Lou Devaro asked, in the form of a greeting, when they entered the First Selectman’s office.

  “Fair-to-middling, Lou.” Doc responded in his well-worn, old-time dialect.

  After an introduction of Inspector Chace to Doc Franklin, the trio went over some details of the East Wayford homicides and all agreed that there appeared to be similarities.

  Chief Devaro and Inspector Chace got directions to the scene from Doc. As they were about to leave Doc asked if he could “tag along”. He indicated that if this death was ruled a homicide, it would be the first one in the history of the Town.

  “I don’t get many chances at firsts at my age.” he said.

  Lou nodded and, with a chuckle, responded, “I hear ya, Doc, we’ll drop you off back here after the inspector finishes.”

  On the ride to 410 Old Persia Road, the scene of the dead body discovery, Doc told the chief and the inspector that on Sunday, the previous day, the owners of the residence had gone out of state an on overnight Memorial Day family reunion and picnic.

  The house was recently listed for sale by a local realty brokerage. Doc didn’t recall the name off hand, but the sign at the property would show a telephone number.

  He continued on with how the body was discovered in the driveway at around 1:00 AM by the next door neighbor. As was the local habit, the owners had asked their neighbor to keep an eye on the property while they were away. The neighbor had noticed head lights moving along the driveway through the shrubs. When the neighbor wasn’t able to reach the owners by cell phone, he walked over to investigate.

  Upon arriving on the grim scene he called 911. The state trooper on patrol responded around the same time as the rescue truck. They could not get a pulse but the body was still warm. Resuscitation procedures were started and were maintained on the rescue truck ride until it reached the hospital, but to no avail. The trooper had filed a report at his barracks at the end of his shift and had left for home.

  The trio of law officials turned onto Old Persia Road and drove to the scene of the suspected crime. As they approached the address they could see an SUV with flashing lights parked across the driveway. Standing beside his SUV was an old time local constable, looking like a sheriff in a western movie with his wide brimmed hat and a strapped on revolver hanging off his hip.

  The chief pulled his cruiser to the side of the road and they got out. Police barrier tape was strung across the driveway entrance.

  “Hello Doc” said the constable as the group approached, “I’ve been standing guard here since the others left, at the request of the trooper. I didn’t get his name, but he wore badge number 301.”

  “Thanks Bill,” Doc responded, “I’ll get relief for you within a half hour, or so. Will that be Okay?” The constable agreed and proceeded to explain that they would see a tarpaulin on the driveway where the body had lain.

  “I’ll need that tarp back as soon as you folks are done,” he added.

  “Okay Bill, I’ll make sure of it”, promised the first selectman. “Has anyone else come by since you’ve been here?” he asked of the constable.

  “Yeah, a landscaping crew showed up around quarter to seven. They got here for an early start on a landscaping overhaul operation, which had been pre-arranged for today, at a time when the family was away.” responded the constable.

  Inspector Chace nodded knowingly. He and his family lived in a suburban area. He knew from his own experience that these could be noisy, smoky, affairs with the power mowers, chippers, clippers and blowers all churning away at the same time. It was customary to suggest that the occupants be away at the time.

  Based on the suggestion from the constable, and since the area had been taped off with the yellow police tape, the landscapers had canceled the operation and left

  The chief, the inspector and the first selectman walked slowly down and through a shallow valley, crunching along on a 200 ft. long crushed-stone driveway. It was lined with overgrown shrubbery that practically hid the house from view.

  At fifty feet from the house and garage another line of police tape had been staked around the area. A quick scan of the scene showed a late model Jaguar coupe bearing the Connecticut Vanity license plate MINE, parked on an angle in a turn-around space off to the left side of the driveway. The driver’s door was open and a set of car keys were on the crushed stone driveway, approximately eight feet away, toward the street.

  The matted-down, crushed stone surface around the car and around the tarp where the body had been found was scuffed up and strewn about, indicative of a probable scuffle.

  On the breezeway connecting the house to the garage a yellow insect-resistant outdoor light was lit, as was the bronze-caged white door light at the main entrance of the house.

  The neat, south facing, one-story ranch style house had gray vinyl siding. The front door and the imitation shutters were painted rust red. A row of slightly overgrown shrubbery lined the front side foundation.

  The canvass tarp at the spot where the victim had been was approximately six feet from the car, between it and the breezeway door. Once lifted, it revealed the remains of a cigarette which had been dropped in the driveway. As evidenced by the ashes, the cigarette had burned almost its entire length, down to the filter, there on the driveway surface.

  As the inspector walked back to Chief Devaro’s cruiser to retrieve his leather carrying case, the siren on the vehicle of Constable Bill’s relief could be heard approaching from the southwest.

  Inspector Chace returned and was soon busily dusting for fingerprints on the car and portions of the exterior of the house and garage. He had snapped photos of where the body had been found, the auto keys and the cigarette remains. He had collected the cigarette butt and keys and placed them, with tweezers, into plastic bags and sealed them.

  A call to the Realty Company for access keys to the lock-box on the breezeway door had been made and the license plate on the Jaguar was being run for ownership identification. A call to the medical examiner’s office had been placed with its answering service. A state police courier had been dispatched to the hospital to retrieve the deceased’s personal effects and ID.

  All this was completed within twenty two minutes! Chief Devaro was impressed by the display of professionalism.

  Chapter 15

  In the meantime, approximately 130 miles to the east, at a bed and breakfast just two blocks in from the Falmouth Massachusetts coastline, the Monday holiday had begun with a gloomy, chilly fog.

  Maggie and Max had awakened a little late and, having showered, were dodging each other as they moved around their suite getting dressed. The breakfast had begun at 7:00 AM sharp and, according to the plastic encased direction sheet, would end at 9:30. They had 10 minutes to go downstairs and put in the order. It was too chilly to eat out on the observation deck overhead on the roof so they were going to have their coffee and food in the snug little dining room with the enormous old fireplace.

  As the rested couple had just selected breakfast from the choice of two items, a bright sunbeam came streaming in through the wrinkled antique window beside thei
r table.

  “Man, what a view!’ commented Max as the pair looked out over the roofs of two side-by-side, one story bungalows. The vista was magnificent. Beyond the blue-grey harbor waters they could see the outline of the “West Chop” section of the island of Martha’s Vineyard, approximately two and one half miles across Nantucket Sound to the south.

  The first ferry to the islands was plowing through the choppy water carrying a load of passengers, mostly seated in the wind-protected lower deck. The shoreline waters here did not warm up until mid-July and, even then, never reached the warmer temperature found along the Rhode Island and Connecticut south shores.

  On the plus side, summer heat waves along the inner Cape were rare and on the outer Cape, nonexistent. The torrent of tourism seeking cool weather on Cape Cod from inland Massachusetts and neighboring states was relentless, even in the modern days of air conditioning.

  The Memorial Day three-day weekend was unusually busy each year due to the graduating or soon-to-be graduating, high school and college students’ migratory celebrations.

  Max and Maggie didn’t have an abundance of available accommodations from which to choose when they arrived late Friday afternoon, but they were enjoying their first stay at a refreshingly quiet, low-keyed bed and breakfast establishment. After breakfast on Saturday morning Maggie had made contact with the friends in Hyannis. As it turned out, the couple was having their bathrooms and their pool refurbished. They apologized for not being ready for company but suggested a dinner at the tennis club, their treat, Saturday evening. Maggie had accepted for her and Max since the friends had a minimum monthly dining room fee, as part of their membership requirements, and they had to use it or they would lose it. Plus the food was great there.

  Later on Saturday, during dinner, Maggie and Max had explained that, at this part in their lives, they had made a joint decision, to open up to their employers as to their personal relationship. The friends had not been aware of the details of their friends’ employment and business arrangement. They were surprised and a little confused, but totally supportive since they had known Maggie and Max as a couple for some time. They were more than a little shocked at the news about the killings, however.

  As they were dining, an organizer of tournaments had approached their table and asked if anyone would fill in for a set of couples who dropped out of the club annual ‘Kick Off” tournament the next day, on Sunday afternoon. When Max good naturedly expressed their agreement to fill in “because in that way, he and Maggie would feel a little less guilty about the free dinner,” the group enjoyed a hearty laugh.

  On this Monday morning, the final day of their mini vacation, they were both a bit hung over. The tennis tournament dinner and awards session hadn’t finished until after 11:00 the night before. The older members had left at that point but Maggie and Max hanged on with their friends along with two other couples for a “last” drink.

  Maggie, who was teamed with an older woman during the tournament, had won second place in the final doubles matches. Feeling somewhat overly exuberant, Max had accidentally spilled a drink at their table during the awards session when he rose to applaud Maggie as she walked back to their table waving the winners certificate and her prize, a sleeve of tennis balls, over her head. Max took a real razzing for the spill and the group of revelers had insisted that he buy yet another round of drinks as punishment. A bit looped as they left the Hyannis clubhouse, the “Double-Ms”, as they were dubbed that evening, still had to negotiate a fifteen mile drive back to Falmouth.

  When they had made their way back to the Inn, Maggie tripped over a bench in the main foyer, creating a loud crashing sound that echoed though the old building. As lights came on in the sitting room, she and Max tip-toed hurriedly up the stairs and after momentarily fiddling with the key, stumbled into their suite, both stifling laughter as they quietly clicked the door closed behind them.

  On this morning after, they wondered aloud to each other whether they would be welcomed if they decided to stay there at some future date. Feeling that they were being watched, and that they might have broken some expensive antique, they finished breakfast and went to pack their belongings so that they could, at least, make sure to check out before the 10:00AM “deadline”, thereby avoiding ‘disgracing themselves’ even further.

  By 10:30 AM, Ms. Marshall and Mr. Hargrove were on the way back from their spontaneous weekend of enjoyment and goof-ups. They were both deep in thought as they went along the boring drive amid low shrubs and dwarf evergreens which dominate the growth on the rural, sand based outlands of inner Cape Cod.

  Maggie was driving Max’s car. Max, having reclined his passenger seat halfway had drifted off into a catnap. Maggie, with her tinderbox of a temper, and her strong sense of self-worth, was slightly miffed at being ignored and with having been left with the driving.

  Just for laughs, she had an impish temptation to slam on the brakes, blow the horn and yell Max, just to see his stunned, half-asleep expression. Then, as the common-sense Maggie prevailed, she glanced over at the dozing man that she had strong feelings for. He was at least peaceful, during a tumultuous time that had invaded both of their lives during the last months. I’ve got to be careful about making everything about me. I’m strong, but he’s a strong guy too, both physically and mentally, and he feels the same way about me. I’ll cut him a little slack right now, she thought. She tuned to her favorite satellite station on the radio and did another half hour of driving.

  Max woke up and struggled to focus as Maggie was slowing the car behind the usual going-home traffic snag, leading up to the narrow, circa 1930 Bourne Bridge which spanned the Cape Cod Canal. Glancing at some of the license plates around her she could see Rhode Island, Connecticut, Vermont, New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania logos.

  “Okay Max”, time to rise and shine”, she said intentionally loudly, “Do you want to wait until we get over the bridge, or do you want me to pull over so that you can take over the controls now?” she asked the still groggy Max.

  “No, Mag, pull over, at this pace we won’t miss too many spaces, I’ll do the bridge”, he responded, rubbing his eyes briskly with his knuckles. “Do you want to stop at that chowder house on the other side for lunch?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that and the rest room, if you know what I mean” she answered in her “tough girl” tone.

  The stop for lunch proved to be a good idea. Not only were they relieved, and full of good clam chowder and clam cakes, the traffic had thinned out some and they were making good time heading west on Rte. I-195. Max was driving now, feeling somewhat rejuvenated from his nap.

  Their conversation took on more of a business like tone now that the holiday was coming to an end. Tomorrow it was back to the grindstone, starting a new week, and starting some dialog with their employers. Here and there throughout the weekend Maggie and Max had touched on the real motivation for the trip. Their long standing policy to mask their personal involvement so as to avoid suspicion of collusion in their business pursuits, had worked nicely until the two mysterious murders occurred. Since then, the volume of referrals to Francine from lenders had dropped off and the requests for auction appraisals from Carl had almost stopped.

  Max was knowledgeable enough in business practices to know that, although he was a salaried employee, if the need for his specialized services decreased, his employer would have to consider alternatives. That concerned Max.

  The drop off in contacts from the three primary mortgage lenders which Maggie had cultivated meant less listing contracts of financially distressed properties for Francine’s brokerage, as well as less need for auction services.

  This recent slump might be caused by a down cycle, but the timing, which coincided with the recent killings, seemed too coincidental, they reasoned. Both agreed that each of them would discuss this with their respective employers during the first week after the holiday. The discussions would also include shedding some light on the personal connection between Max and Maggie,
to fish around for a reaction from their employers regarding that information.

  The two returning holiday travelers had gotten through the Providence Rte. I-95/I-195 intersection and were motoring south on I-95 when, on a New Haven Connecticut radio station, a news bulletin grabbed their attention. Max turned up the volume.

  “Another killing has occurred in south central Connecticut. This is the third mysterious death within the past five weeks which seem to be connected. Concern is growing among local residents about the possibility of a serial killer prowling in the area. A meaningful response by local law enforcement is being demanded. And now back to our scheduled programming.” Max turned down the resumed music.

  “Christ Max,” Maggie exclaimed, “we can’t seem to escape this crap! Did he say similar circumstances?”

  After a momentary hesitation, Max replied, “All I can say, Mag, is that before you talk to Francine, and before I talk to Carl, we had better have a talk with Lou Devaro, or maybe we should get working on getting legal advice.”

  Chapter 16

  Inspector Don Chace was busy early on Tuesday, the first weekday following the short holiday break. The day before, after he had returned to the East Wayford headquarters, he spent the most of his remaining work time organizing his agenda for people to see and places to go, in pursuit of answers. The mysterious deaths had taken on a new urgency now, with the Sheffield case.

  On this day Chace, sitting at his desk in the temporary office provided for him, was busy working on his laptop filling in addresses and phone numbers on the list he had compiled the night before. His office was in a former storage room adjacent to the chief’s office.

  The courier who was sent to retrieve the Sheffield victim’s personal effects had been informed that, until next of kin had been contacted, the items could not be released. Chace had gotten the name and driver’s license number from the hospitals head nurse. The driver’s address showed a Greenville CT address.