Sand City Murders (11 page)

The park was unique and definitely one of my favorite places in Sand City. It was virtually a rhododendron forest. Something about the sun’s angle and the balmy breezes off Great Bay… the acidity in the soil. They were ancient, these trees or bushes, I’m not sure which. And they were thriving despite their gray scraggly branches that twisted in every direction. For the most part they were lush and always vibrantly green, a waxy sort of green. Planted there more than a century ago by Valmont Dubois himself, no doubt. It was a welcome patch of color that persisted all winter from the edge of the park, down to Saint Alban’s and the old sea wall.

It was raining still, a cold biting rain. My spring jacket was woefully inadequate. I could feel the drops soak through to my bare shoulder almost as soon as they hit, and my hair was already wet. As we approached the park, Inspector Fynn carefully put on a pair of white satin gloves, not exactly latex or nitrile crime scene gloves. He also took a small disc-like apparatus from his pocket. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it certainly looked like an antique, fashioned from wood and metal, now quite tarnished. He studied a dial on it with some dedication.

Yellow police tape was already strung across the entrance. Durbin was waiting, talking to some uniforms, and then ushered us through. He was wearing a dark blue Atlantic storm-coat trimmed with fake fur around the hood. Seemed like overkill but I suppose he was warm and dry. The victim was laid out on one of the dedicated benches. There was no blood, no signs of violence. It looked like she just curled up and went to sleep. She was dressed in shorts and a loose-fitting white shirt with puffy sleeves. The rain was starting to soak through to her skin. Blond, maybe early twenties, and quite beautiful. Her face had a serene expression. I took out my camera and tried to focus in more ways than one. I could hear raindrops smacking against the slate paved path. My camera shutter clicked relentlessly. My lens also caught the small dedication, a plastic sign bolted to the bench and made to look like bronze:
In loving memory of Ester Luis
.

“Could be a suicide… but I’ll have to wait for the tox report,” Durbin pointed out restlessly.

If the victim was indeed Chief Inspector Fynn’s wife, he did a good job of not betraying any grief. I studied him carefully, looking for a moist eye, a tear, a quivering lip, but saw nothing. His demeanor was dispassionate and professional, though I will admit, I would not want to play poker with this guy. He was absolutely stone-faced.

 Durbin turned to me as I finished photographing the scene. “Are you okay, Patrick? You look like hell,” he said.

“Just a little queazy, I guess.”

“Right, well thanks for this. Powell owes you big time now.” Durbin called out to one of the officers, “Drake... get a tarp to cover this poor girl, will ya?”

“Who found the body?” Inspector Fynn asked almost idly. It didn’t seem to be an important question at the time.

“A local guy, a jogger… I know him pretty well. I’m thinking not a suspect,” Durbin replied. “One of my uniforms checked for ID— nothing on her, no cellphone, no pocketbook either… And I don’t see signs of a struggle.”

“Hmm, barefoot again,” I said almost under my breath.

Durbin gave me a funny look. “What do you mean
again
?”

“Oh, nothing, but she is barefoot,” I said and glanced at the body.

Inspector Fynn crouched for a closer look. “Yes, interesting… she is barefoot now, but not earlier.”

“What do you mean?” Durbin squatted as well.

“If you look closely, you may notice these red marks along her ankle…” The inspector took out a telescoping pointer from his jacket. It seemed to be made from wood, maybe lacquered bamboo. He traced the marks with a closely hovering tip. “These are impressions left by her socks, the elastic against the skin.” He rose. “If she wore socks, she probably wore shoes as well.”

“And since the marks are still visible, this pretty much just happened,” Durbin said and also stood. “How long do you think these kind of marks might last?”

“There are many variables, how tight the elastic, how long she wore the garments… An hour maybe. Who can say?”

“So, the killer took off her shoes?” I asked.

“That appears to be the case.”

“I’ll get my crew to do a perimeter search. Hopefully they’ll turn something up.” Durbin gave off a long sigh. “This is looking like a dump, not a murder scene. And it might have happened right under our noses. Mr Peters, our jogger, called this in at ten thirty. You’d think someone might have found her sooner. We’ll see what Doc Hackney says…”

“Doctor who?” Fynn asked.

“Doc Hackney, the coroner, he’s on his way.”

“Here we have another small clue,” Chief Inspector Fynn observed. “May I?” he asked Durbin if he could touch the body and got a nod of approval. Rigor had not set in. Almost lovingly, he took the girl’s chin in his gloved hand and gently angled it to one side. Her hair was a wet tangle of bangs. He carefully brushed them back. “Earrings,” the inspector said softly. Durbin looked on. She was in fact wearing a small silver dolphin in each ear. A puzzled expression came to the inspector’s face. “Something else is very odd,” Fynn observed and took off one of his gloves. He softly rested his bare knuckles just below her clavicle. “She is cold to the touch… too cold.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not sure... Also, her clothes are not soaked through despite the rain,” Fynn replied.

“Jesus F. Christ,” the detective said at large. “This just happened, didn’t it?”

“It would appear so. And perhaps indoors.” The inspector paused. “I would pay special attention to her fingernails as well. There maybe some trace evidence there.”

Durbin was about to look again when I called out, “Detective?” He turned to me. I had walked about ten yards up the paved path to the next wooden bench in line and was staring down at a muddy patch on the lawn. The two policemen came up behind me.

“What’cha got?”

I pointed with a nod. “Footprints... well, shoe prints.”

“Huh, looks like someone jumped here… maybe right off that bench.” Durbin bent down to study the marks. “Pretty weird,” he commented, then glanced up to Fynn and I. “Get some shots of that, will ya, Jardel?” He stood upright. “I’m gonna cordon off the whole freaking place. Our perp might still be close.” He was almost thinking aloud, and walked off to find another uniform and a radio.

The chief inspector came up to my side and whispered, “Italian.”

“What?”

“The prints. Italian shoes again.” He paused. “You must say nothing more.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a reporter. That’s a promise I can’t easily keep.”

“I see,” Fynn said with some disappointment. “This woman was my wife, you understand.”

“A little on the young side?”

“You are so quick to judge?”

“Sorry, but you’re like more than three times her age.”

“Perhaps at present, but not when we first met,” he said.

“I didn’t see a ring…What, is she an ex-wife?”

“Not exactly. I haven’t married her yet, it would seem.”

Detective Durbin returned. “Well, not much to do till the coroner gets here.” Durbin raised his hood and faced us. “There’s no reason for you two to hang around and get wet…
or more wet
. Might as well head back to the station. Patrick, can you drop the photos off to Manuel? I’ll meet you back... Inspector,” he added politely, “Welcome to your first day on the job.”

Chief Inspector Fynn smiled grimly and shook Durbin’s hand. It seemed unnecessary to me. We slowly walked back to my car.

“What’s that strange thing you have?”

“Hmm?”

“That device? Is this what lets you travel through time?”

“No, no, of course not, it’s just a compass of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“A compass with some added components. It has a sextant built into it.”

“A sextant, are you kidding? What, like on an old sailing ship?”

“Yes, very much like that, though the clouds have rendered it quite useless today.” Fynn fished it out of his pocket and put the disc in my palm. “Some would call it an astrolabe.”

It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship and no doubt quite old, maybe even centuries old. It was in part an ordinary compass, but I noticed several odd features. There was a large inlaid crystal at the center, and just above that, a dial or some kind of clock with extra hands. On the flip side, I found an inlay of seven small stones, each a different color, all set along concentric rings. The outer edge of the disc was movable like a dial. I twisted it gently and gears inside caused the smaller inlaid gems to move in tandem. Around the edge I could make out the twelve signs of the zodiac, carved on both sides.

“What’s this part?” I pointed to the large crystal on the front.

“Ah, a sunstone… from the Viking days.”

“What does that do?”

“A way to find the sun, even in this weather.”

“What’s it for?”

“Navigation,” the inspector replied.

“And the clock thing?”

“A chronometer.”

“What does it measure?”

“Time of course, but something called sidereal time.”

I returned the device to him and climbed into my old Saab. We drove back in silence to the station. I was still trying to wrap my head around everything that had happened over the last couple of days. I certainly could not draw any conclusions yet. My thinking became circular like the path in Wright’s Park. Nothing made sense. It all went round and round. I glanced over at Fynn. He was watching the bleak scenery pass as we headed back through the Village. He said nothing as well, but seemed to be waiting for me to talk.

“Who is Ester Luis?” I asked, remembering the dedication plaque on the bench.

“Ester was Lorraine’s mother. She died of natural causes many years ago. It’s no coincidence that we found our victim on her bench.”

“You know who did this, don’t you?” I asked, though I’m not sure why.

“I may have crossed paths with this person.”

“Who then?”

“It is impossible to explain at the moment.”

“I’m getting kind of sick of that.”

“I do apologize, Mr Jardel. I am not meaning to confound you.”

“Well you’ve done a great job so far,” I said and tried to keep my anger in check. I pulled into the station and grabbed my camera from the back. “Aren’t you coming in?” I asked, seeing that Fynn had not stirred from his seat.

“No, I think we need to talk. We should find a place to sit and be comfortable, have a bite to eat, or a drink maybe,” the inspector said. “Perhaps I can clarify some of this for you.”

“A drink? It’s kind of early.”

“A coffee then…”

I considered his request. “How hungry are you?”

“Despite everything, I have quite an appetite. If I were to choose quantity over quality, I would prefer the former.”

“I know just the place.”

chapter 10

perpetual buffet

That place was Asian East, the perpetual buffet. It was always quiet inside, even if crowded, and it never was, except maybe on a rainy day in the middle of the summer. I could never be sure where the owners were from, China, Vietnam, Cambodia or someplace else. They all pretended not to speak English, though I’m pretty sure they were all fluent. Anytime you asked a question other than
where’s the restroom
, they simply smiled and bowed until you eventually gave up and left. It seemed to be a family-run business, though every month or so there would be some new wait-staff or kitchen help. They leased a big space in Sand City’s only shopping plaza at the bottom of the hill. Nearly the size of a supermarket and set up beautifully as a huge restaurant. All you could eat for fifteen bucks— at least in the winter, and they were open year round. Prices may vary. Timing was everything at Asian East. At the right time, the crispy shrimp wontons could be heavenly. At the wrong time, a heaping portion of General Tsao’s chicken and noodles might go down like live snakes and just sit there in your stomach, writhing. Asian East had also tried to open a satellite restaurant, the Wok Star, over by the Marina, but it never went over real big. Probably will close down this season.

The inspector and I walked in from the rain and were seated immediately. There was no one in the place except for a retired couple sitting in the corner very far from us. And of course the staff hovered nearby; they outnumbered us four to one.

“Don’t be fooled,” I whispered. “I’m sure everyone in here speaks fluent English.”

The inspector gave me a questioning glance and headed up towards the hot buffet. He loaded his plate with a small sampling of four or five different entrees. Our timing was perfect today. It was only about one o’clock and even the chicken looked fresh.

“Ah, where to begin?” the inspector said once he sat again and dove into a slippery wonton.

I poured a tiny cup of tea. “I’ll start if you want.”

“Very well.”

“You arrived in Fairhaven and stayed at the Holiday Inn, a week before the first murder.”

“I am a suspect then?” the inspector laughed and poured himself a cup of tea as well. “You are better suited as a detective than a reporter, I should think.”

“Do you have an explanation?”

“None that you would understand at this point.”

“Not this again.”

“Perhaps you could check the hotel register. You will now find I did not stay there.” The inspector reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document. He set it on the table. “Here is the ICEP letter.”

I read it over briefly and it certainly looked very official. It was dated just four days ago. The letter detailed the exchange of Chief Inspectors Leonardo Arantez and Tractus Fynn. It even had a raised Interpol seal in the corner. I was still somewhat dubious. I slid the paper back towards him and said nothing.

“Is your mobile phone functioning today?” he asked and took a bite of broccoli.

That was a good question but a strange one. I recalled Eleanor Woods mentioning that cell service wouldn’t be back till Thursday. I reached into my pocket and checked the phone. It seemed to be working fine.