The Secluded Village Murders

CHAPTER ONE-2

“I’m talking blowing the whistle, okay? Is that plain enough for you?”

Emily readjusted her hood and brushed her damp hair away from her eyes. “Go on.”

Just then, Oliver returned with a new stick. Just as quickly, the man yanked it out of Oliver’s mouth and pitched it out of sight. The fog hung a tad lower, cloaking everything in the near distance. Clueless, Oliver took off, this time heading south toward the far reaches of the meadow where the ground sloped down again, falling away to the Village Green.

The point man’s eyes hardened as more droplets ran down his face. “Look, I appreciate how you’re jerking me around and how you don’t back down even though we’re alone up here. So seeing you’re about to go futzing off to England and we’re both pressed for time, how about getting off it while I maybe do something for you?”

Oliver returned stick-less as the drizzle picked up.

Tired of this game, Emily said, “Okay, mister, let’s have it.”

“Okay. We’re talking here about ratcheting the grand list—lower taxes, new fire trucks, snow plows, and all the infrastructure la-di-da. So talk to me. Give me the skinny on this Cooper guy before things get outta hand.”

Getting testier by the minute, Emily gave him nothing.

“What do you think, I got nothing better to do? Here, you want my card? Will that do it for you?” He no sooner reached for his wallet when a cell phone jangled. He put the wallet away, pulled his cell out of his outer pocket, and turned his back.

The man’s raspy voice cut off the protests at the other end. “Okay, okay, I hear you. Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of it. I set it up, didn’t I?”

Muffling his voice, he walked further away. The only other words Emily could make out were, “All right, already. I gotcha. Right away.”

“Great reception up here,” he said, returning. “Another plus. Think about it. A hundred and twenty townhouses that can’t miss no matter what. Toss in a clubhouse, pools, recreation facilities, and whatever.” Fumbling inside his raincoat, he pulled out a brochure. “Twenty-two exterior looks, and that’s for openers. They got lawyers, experts, and an eye to grab up enough land to keep ’em going for the next twenty years.”

“I’m still waiting for an answer. What exactly are you up to?”

His cocky grin slid away. “Well, I ain’t waiting no more.” With that, he turned on his heels and scurried across the waist-high grass that could accommodate anything the GDC could come up with.

“Hold it,” Emily said.

“Look, I’m under the gun, gotta step on it. Besides, I’ve had it up to here with the wet and the turkeys and the attitude. Enough already.”

“And what’s your name anyway?”

The raspy voice called back as it tailed off in the gauzy whiteness. “Doc! Okay? Just make it Doc!”

Emily held still. As her old soccer coach used to point out, one of her failings was confusing motion with action. But how could she ignore his threatening words in that harsh, Lower East Side tone? Before I make my move . . . things get out of hand . . . I’ll take care of it right away . . . I set it up, didn’t I?

There was something else, come to think of it. A few days ago, when she’d returned from her latest tour, apparently a hot plate had been left on that almost burned down Chris’s greenhouse. Something bothersome about the incident, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. All she knew was that something was wrong.

Emily headed back to the crest of the trail with Oliver in tow. She worked her way down, dodging the glistening roots, tightening her hood as the water dripped from the overarching branches. She reached the bottom just as Will’s red pickup pulled into the driveway. The second his lanky form appeared out of the cab, Oliver leaped up and smeared Will’s Levi’s jacket with his muddy paws, spun around, and smashed through the hinged flap of the back door.

As laid-back as ever, even though the rain was pelting his face, Will said, “What was that all about? On, no, don’t tell me. Did he take off again?”

Emily ducked under the overhang of the cottage. “Sorry, I’ve got something I’ve got to look into.”

Will shrugged and ambled over to the B&B. Calling across the yard, he asked, “Sure you don’t want some hot coffee and an omelet? I can do it with chili or asparagus.”

At any other time, she would have liked nothing better than to take a break and find out how his work was going. She’d only known him for a short while, dropped in for coffee once or twice, and he couldn’t be that much older, maybe in his mid-thirties, and you never know. But at this moment, that was out of the question.

“Tea? Supper?”

“Maybe. But right now I’ve got to—”

“Around five or so?”

“I guess . . . sure, fine.”

“Then you can tell me exactly what Oliver’s been up to.”

“I will. Later, okay?”

Stepping inside the cottage, Emily made straight for the kitchenette. All other issues were secondary now given the way her thoughts were running. Rambling and moving on was her primary modus operandi. But her encounter with this Doc guy meant there was no way she could shrug this off.

She snatched up the handset and punched in the numbers.

The familiar gravelly voice that went with the elongated weathered face picked up almost immediately. “Yes?”

“Chris, I met a guy just now on the high meadow who’s got to be from New York. He seems to be—”

“Emily, can this wait? I’ve got a by-me to take care of.”

“By-me” was their code for “by my own hand, I am responsible.” The alternatives were “to-me,” or “everything happens to me,” and “through-me,” meaning “let it go, let it pass.” When Emily’s dad ran out on her and her mother, Chris pushed the “through-me” tack. All things being equal, through-me looks like your best bet, kiddo.

“Look, Emmy,” Chris went on, “it’s a by-me ’cause I just got a phone message that I botched a job on North Lake Road. As if I didn’t know my business, didn’t know how to weather-tight a slate roof. So I’m off to see what’s going on.”

“Now? In the rain?”

“When else? Claims there’s a bad leak, all my fault. Anyone who knows me knows that is bogus.”

“Chris, listen to me.”

“Whatever it is, whatever you want to discuss, I’m sure it’ll keep,” Chris said, obviously in a rush. “Let me see to this. We’ll kick back later and you can tell me all about it.”

“Will you please wait a minute? This is not a good idea.”

But it was no use. Chris offered his quick apologies and hung up. Hitting the redial brought her nothing but his answering machine.

She replaced the handset and thought it over. Was she jumping to conclusions? Was she, once again, about to confuse motion with action? Shouldn’t she at least think it through?

But she couldn’t just stand there.

Unable to contain herself a moment longer, she left the cottage and hurried down the drive, past Will’s pickup and the clapboard siding of the B&B and the front lawn. She slipped behind the wheel of her old Camry, had a few more second thoughts, hit the ignition, and headed down the hill.

As she passed the expanse of wetlands and uplands, it didn’t register that the tract the GDC coveted was bracketed by her mother’s property and the Curtises’ ramshackle colonial at the foot of the hill. Nothing registered except a need to talk Chris out of climbing up onto that slate roof.

He was over seventy but refused to admit he was no longer agile and had had a few recent close calls. Steadfast to a fault, thinking only of his artisanship. Unless she missed her guess, he would be going up to the Tudor house on North Lake Road if she didn’t intercept and get him to change his mind. The vacant McMansion was owned by the UK’s own Miranda Shaw, a pampered guest who had stayed at the B&B while her McMansion was under construction. Who may or may not have made the call that set Chris off. After all, Miranda was currently in far-off Bovey Tracey, on the outskirts of the moors.

Driving on, everything receded, including the stately elms and the file of Federal style homes on both sides of North Street with their low-pitched roofs, flat façades, and black, louvered shutters. So did the white congregational church on the Green with its Christopher Wren steeple dissolving instantly as she turned right onto West Street and whisked by the old brick shops, Village Restaurant, and the town hall and state trooper’s office.

Picking up speed, she passed the rows of Victorian houses with their pilastered front porches and attached shutters in homage to last century’s Colonial Revival. She’d grown up here, always lived here except for college and her transatlantic jaunts. But at this moment, her village might as well be a scattering of old photos.

Before she knew it, the rain was beating down harder, her wiper blades barely able to keep up. Among the nagging questions flitting through her mind was how could Miranda Shaw have suddenly gotten wind of her leaking roof? Or did somebody just put her up to it, to get Chris rushing pellmell in the rain so he would . . .

Emily eased her foot off the pedal, barely able to see through the downpour. She switched the wipers on high and kept her eyes on the road, intent on avoiding an accident.

Minutes later, she pulled into Miranda Shaw’s place at a slow but steady crawl. As she reached the circular drive, straining her eyes through the thwacking blades, she peered up two stories above the stone archway.

There she caught sight of the familiar gangly figure climbing higher toward the peak of an eight-sided turret. At a point where the grayish-blue slate, copper flashing, and a mullioned window merged, the figure suddenly became a shuddering blur.

Emily honked her horn, blasting as loud as she could. But it was too late. The figure flopped over and slid down the turret, glanced off the aluminum ladder, and toppled like a broken doll until the cobblestones broke its fall.