The Secluded Village Murders Read online

  Emily found herself in familiar surroundings in the sprawling waiting area of Bradley Airport north of Hartford. It was now only minutes before her scheduled short hop to JFK and her flight to Heathrow.

  She rang the B&B but there was no answer. Assuming Will wasn’t back yet from checking out Miranda’s roof, she decided to touch base with Babs.

  At this point, two more people joined another couple chatting away on their cellphones sitting opposite her. She moved to a quiet corner and turned away from the pulsating cell conversations of a half-dozen others as Babs picked up almost immediately.

  “Hold it, okay?” Emily said, set to avoid the usual overlapping static on Babs’s part. “This is the deal. You get two minutes to pass on Chris’s disclosure about the regulations loophole and then back off for a second. I follow with a capsule version of a cellphone call by a guy named Doc from the GDC up in the high meadow on the morning in question, possibly leading to a second call that sent Chris racing to Miranda’s.”

  “That’s pretty cut and dried, Ryder.”

  “You hear all the background noise? You recall where I am? We’ll be lucky to get that much done.”

  “Boy, you sure are full of some attitude. Okay, but get it straight. I am the pro. You are a shook-up bystander poking around the edges. Get it? Okay then. It seems Chris was pressured by Brian Forbes to follow to the letter the zoning regulations that ‘development shall be permitted on the high meadow tract in view of economic circumstances.’ Chris goes to the town clerk’s office. He comes across the exact wording, to wit, that ‘development may be permitted . . . in view of present economic circumstances.’ The way Chris saw it, ‘present circumstances’ referred to the days of the Great Depression when there was a need for housing to accommodate factory workers in a factory that ultimately never got built. And the word ‘may’ was a far cry from the word ‘shall.’ So he told me he’d outline all this in a statement for the public record. But in that open and above-board way of his, he may have also made this known to good ol’ Brian.”

  There was silence while Emily tried to take this all in. “Hold on,” she said as she fumbled for a pen and made some cursory notes on the envelope holding her tickets.

  Back on the line as the noise level picked up another notch, Emily said, “All right. So, for whatever it’s worth, Doc, this streetwise sounding older guy obviously fronting for the GDC, told somebody over his cell he’d ‘take care of it right away.’ Maybe it’s the way streetwise guys talk, maybe it’s just because we were just talking about Chris. But taking into account what happened right after . . .”

  Starting to get choked up, sensing other passengers were looking at her, Emily quickly broke it off. “Tell you what. I’ll relay the gist of your information to Will when I get to the British Airways lounge at JFK. Right now, I’ve got barely enough time to touch base with him before boarding the shuttle.”

  “And I’m left to decipher what street guys mean when they say they’ll take care of something.”

  “I guess. Got to go.”

  Despite Babs’s sputtering attempts to keep her on the line, Emily hung up then hit her primary speed-dial number. She fell silent as Will mentioned what he’d run across at the McMansion. Will also slipped in the news about Dave Roberts’s stonewalling. All along, Emily had expected a dire outcome in some shape or form the moment she saw Chris shudder and fall. No matter how gingerly Will was attempting to couch it, taken together with what Babs just told her, Emily was convinced that someone deliberately set out to do away with Chris.

  The noise level grew as more and more passengers filed in.

  “Will, I think you’re holding something back.”

  “Well . . . maybe.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Hey, it’s not like some done deal. Besides, like Trooper Dave put it and I’d sort of have to agree, I sure don’t want to burden you any further.”

  “Look, Will, the truth is, I’ve been gearing myself up for some drastic disclosure. All I want to know is what really happened up on that roof. Chris didn’t have to die! And besides, I’ll have hours on the plane to digest whatever else you’ve got to add to my list.”

  “I don’t know, Emily.”

  “Please, don’t make me guess. With the way my mind has been running, that’ll be a lot worse.”

  Hemming and hawing, he relented. “All right. But first, I almost forgot. Your mom called right after you left. She was kind of upset she didn’t catch you and wants you to call before you take off for England. Let me give you the number.” While fumbling for it, Will added, “Seems like she’s given up on a tower ever coming here and doesn’t want to mess with a cell phone anyways.”

  Emily jotted down the number where her mother could be reached as two harried businessmen sat down directly behind her, arguing over shipping orders. It made hearing Will that much more difficult. Growing more impatient, Emily said, “Come on, Will. Let’s have the rest of it. It’s getting hectic and people are lining up.”

  Will told her that after sharing his findings with his old buddy who worked for a power company, it seems that what happened up on the McMansion roof was no accident. He also told her that realtor Martha Forbes had just been by to let Emily know of a possible generous offer from the GDC that she could pass on to her mother. Then she had scurried back to her car and just stood there.

  “Go on,” Emily said, girding herself for the rest of it.

  “Well, this short, stocky guy pulls in right behind her and hops out. Martha takes an envelope out of her glove compartment, hands it to him, they shake hands, and she drives off.

  “And then?” asked Emily, as the attendant behind the desk announced her flight was now boarding. Emily grabbed her travel bag and scooted in front of a few sloppily dressed slackers, making hand signals and dragging their feet. “Will, the line is moving and I’m handing over my ticket. Is that it? Or did Doc do or say anything else?”

  “Doc?”

  “The short, stocky guy.”

  “Well, the thing is, he walked right to the front door and asked about you. I told him you’d already left.”

  “And?”

  Heading down the ramp toward the beaming flight attendant with the plane engines revving, Emily barely heard the tail end of Will’s report. All she could make out was that Doc had booked a flight across the pond.

  The drone of the cramped shuttle and the complaints of the frumpy woman next to her about cost-cutting schemes didn’t keep Emily from realizing she couldn’t go on like this. She was on edge and depressed. She had to juggle a tour while fending off developments that had killed her friend. She didn’t know how she was going to get to the bottom of things.

  She thought of her college soccer-playing days as a striker. She had to know when to go for a header or a shot on the far post and when to slough one off that had little chance of getting by the goalie. Or, as the coach always put it: No regrets. Stick to it, read the situation. The game will tell you what to do.

  But a striker was a position, an assignment, a definite job with a rule book. Dave Roberts was a trooper, locked into prescribed criminal procedure. In those mysteries coming out of the BBC, each character had a definite role to play: chief inspector, his assistant, the superintendent, constables, prime suspects, witnesses, and so forth. PIs and amateur detectives had their place. She was not part of any outfit, had no idea of proper procedures, and had a fuzzy backup in place, if you counted Will and Babs.

  Which was yet another conundrum. If she confided in Babs, Babs would want to take over and insist on a long explanation, which would put all Emily’s efforts at a standstill. And, as far as she could tell, Will would want to make sure she kept out of trouble, especially with Doc on his way. He’d already made clear that he felt she had more than enough to deal with as things stood.

  All things being equal, it still meant stepping in for Chris. Jockeying for position until she was able to hand the ball off to some authority in pursuit of putting things right.
At the moment, that was the only pure mindset she could come up with. So she nodded to herself and let it go.

  On the call to her mother in Vermont from the British Airways travelers lounge, Emily was inclined to just pull back and listen. It seemed her mother had decided that only if the GDC application fell through, and the B&B was booked solid for the fall foliage season, could she weather another year. If, as she feared, the development of the tract was imminent, she would pull up stakes and open another place in Woodstock, New York, or as far from the travails of the past few years as she could get, which included a flyby-night husband, keeping the B&B going with no prior experience, raising Emily on her own, and all the rest of it. As Emily’s mother became more despondent over the phone, she recounted how she had used the B&B to distract herself. Then got so lonely she couldn’t stand it till the annual retreat and redecorating cycle started all over again. She just wanted Emily to know where things stood so Emily could plan accordingly.

  For her part, as usual, Emily placated her mother, leaving out most everything and steering the conversation away from any link to Chris or “that coarse, pushy man taking soundings for the GDC” she’d fended off over the phone while Emily was away a week ago. The way Emily saw it, the last thing her mother needed was any inkling of how things were going to pieces back home. Given her nervous condition, all alone up in Vermont, it could very well just do her in.

  “Mom,” Emily said, continuing to wing it, “I have to tell you, Will is doing a marvelous job. He knows exactly what to look for. What to fix and what needs shoring up. He can spot leaks and cracks others would overlook.”

  “That’s all to the good, dear. But Martha Forbes was pestering me before I left. And that husband of hers, that Brian, head of the Business Association, hammering away at the long-term boost to the Lydfield economy and the grand list as soon as a development comes in here and gets rolling. I tell you. Oh, by the way, have you heard from Chris about all this pushiness?”

  Emily deflected as best she could, said the topic hadn’t come up as they played phone tag in the short time she’d been back, and broke it off with, “Sorry, mom, got to check on my frequent flyer miles and make sure they’ve got the change in my seat assignment. You try and relax, have a good time, and don’t get caught up in all the static. That’s what a getaway is for, remember?”

  “I suppose. That’s what you keep telling me.”

  “That’s what I want you to believe. Okay? Your turn to promise.”

  The call ended with another “I suppose.”

  In the interim, as she began to consider keeping things close to the vest as something that now came with the territory, a nearby stand provided Emily with a Columbian coffee, fruit, and a granola bar. Luckily, the BA waiting area was practically deserted, offering her the added advantage of being the only cellphone user. Putting it down to the time of day and the fact that even the most intrepid tourists were back at work, their kids at school or whatever, she proceeded to call Babs, once again tossing things off as best she could.

  When Babs started in by saying she only recently found out about Chris and understood why Emily was not herself lately, Emily countered with, “Let’s say the jury is still out about what actually happened. Anyway, I just talked to my mom, and it seems Martha is still at her to sell and Brian is champing at the bit.”

  “Better known as the intimations of dirty tricks and shady schemes of realtors, bankers, and developers,” Babs chimed in.

  “At any rate, you can jot down the sweetener Harriet received from the GDC and how she skipped town, ditched her siblings, and way ahead of schedule, checked into a pricey London hotel that she could never afford.”

  “Gotcha. Hey, not bad, Ryder, not half bad. But why is Harriet playing run-sheep-run from her siblings?”

  “Good question. Now on your end, I’ll need you to act as proxy for me and my mom while we’re both away and to touch base with Will.”

  “Like you didn’t know, given the absence of anything male and remotely hunky in my life, I will jump at the latter. Lucky for you, I will throw in covering the GDC hearing at the town hall tomorrow night which, needless to say, is where this caper is really at. But just as an extended carrot on the stick, is it safe to put Will down as unattached, quietly macho, and on the slightly mature side?”

  Emily let that one go.

  “Now you leave solving this case to the professionals, not that I don’t appreciate your help.”

  Emily ended the call and let that one go as well.

  She called Will again. Predictably, he wanted to know if she was going to be okay and if there was anything else he could do. Emily let him know about the arrangement with Babs and the “may” versus “shall” hitch in the town ordinance that Chris was about to disclose before he was eliminated from the equation.

  But instead of casually going along as expected, Will seemed thrown by the change in Emily’s tone. “Have to say, I don’t get how you’re taking all this. I also don’t like the looks of this Doc character and the fact that he might be coming after you. Maybe you’re doing your level best not to let all this get you down, what with your tour obligations and all. But I got to insist you keep me posted.”

  Emily hesitated a moment before replying. “Look, I’m only trying to keep busy and on top of things. What else can I do?”

  “Still and all, now that you got me involved . . .”

  Registering the deepening note of concern in his voice, finding it comforting despite her resolve to remain footloose, she realized it was almost time to board her flight. She thanked Will for his concern and promised to check in with him again around noon his time.

  After this third hasty goodbye, she was beginning to note that for those on her suspicious list, the art of playing it close to the vest was second nature. They’d had years of practice. She was only beginning to get the hang of it. Needless to say, it had even rubbed off when dealing with those she knew and trusted.

  After being bumped up to business class for frequent flyer promotional reasons, Emily felt like she was ensconced in a sensory deprivation chamber. She was alone by a window, shade drawn, in a padded recliner, separated from the scattering of others somewhere to the left of her fluted divider. At cruising altitude, there was no turbulence to speak of, only a distant hum. When she wanted to check out the real world, all she had to do was slide the divider all the way back and peer over the aisle to the couples in the midsection or the singles over in the second aisle, all of whom were either sleeping or finagling with their iPads. Hardly anyone was conversing.

  For now, within this parallel universe, she began to take stock.

  Babs’s tip about the loophole in the zoning regulations and Will’s hint about stray copper wires and a charge of electrical current by the slate roof merged and gradually sent her thoughts back to that early afternoon less than a week ago that had previously crossed her mind for some mysterious reason.

  She had recently returned from a stint shepherding a docile middle-aged couple around the Cornish coast to smugglers’ coves, old tin mines, and art galleries tucked away in St. Ives and was still dealing with jet lag when her mother sent her on a last-minute errand. A gaggle of lady guests belonging to a red-hat society had asked to stay on an extra day and had requested a special fresh-fruit-laden diet brunch. Always trying to appear amenable no matter what, this special request had sent Emily’s mother into a tizzy. After all, she’d assumed she’d be using the opportunity to leisurely pack for her own holiday. So off Emily went to Chris’s place to pick some peaches to tide the red-hat ladies over.

  At first, this errand under the fluffy billowing clouds and noonday sun was only an extension of the easy time she’d been having for well over a fortnight. Up the dirt drive she went, flanked by a wall of verdant corn stalks. She pulled in past Chris’s old station wagon and parked directly in front of the rustic cabin. The door to the attached greenhouse and potting shed was wide open. Assuming Chris was inside along with the baskets and
cutting knife she’d need, she entered but found no sign of him. Instead, the first thing that met her eye was a hot plate on a rickety table against the far wall. Next to the hot plate were a pile of charred conservation magazines. The sheetrock was scorched all the way up to the skylight, which was covered with a smoky film. The smell of soot, water, and ash was everywhere.

  She stepped back outside, reached inside her car window, and honked. Presently, Chris’s gangly form appeared through the peach groves with a basket filled to the brim. Waving, cutting through the gap between the vegetable beds, he was soon by her side smiling and patting her shoulder, which was as close as he ever got to an open display of affection.

  “This should do you for a start,” Chris said, loading the peaches onto the passenger seat. “You can also pick the blueberries, blackberries, and whatnot. I’ll finish with the drainpipe and ridge vents on that cape on Clark Road. And everybody’ll be happy.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Clasping his hands in mock humility, Chris added, “No, ma’am, no trouble at all. Seeing that it’s the red-hat gals, I am more than glad to interrupt work for a worthy cause.”

  Which was as close as Chris ever got to making a joke.

  Brushing by her, Chris walked back to the cabin, pulled the door closed till it clicked, tugged on it a few times to make sure, and hid the key under a flower pot brimming with petunias. As he did this, he said, “I want to hear all about those typical English seaside resorts and how you made it all untypical. And how in the world you now got yourself saddled with the Curtises. Now that is what I call true grit.”

  Emily still hadn’t responded, her mind fixed on the fire that must have recently broken out close to his cabin.

  Moving across to the attached greenhouse, he went on. “Listen, tell your mom I’m going to look into those airtight zoning regulations. Not so sure they’re all that airtight. A notion that doesn’t sit well with some folks, not to mention any names. But nonetheless.”