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  Praise for Virginia Winters

  The Facepainter Murders

  “BOOK 2 IN A GREAT SERIES, from Virginia Winters, that will thrill mystery readers and genealogists alike. Masterful writing that puts all the clues before the reader, but hides them so the ending remains a surprise.”

  – Arline Chase, author of Ghost Dancer, Killraven, and the Spirit series, Spirit of Earth, Spirit of Fire, Spirit of Wind.

  Murderous Roots

  “FOUR STARS Recently widowed, Canadian doctor Anne McPhail takes leave to trace her genealogy. Ar- riving in a small Vermont town her ancestors once lived in, Anne discovers the body of the librarian she came to meet. Since the police suspect the dead woman may have been using her genealogy expertise to blackmail her clients, they ask Anne to help them reconstruct her research, uncovering several dangerous secrets before finally finding the murderer.

  “An enjoyable read for genealogists as you experience Anne’s elation when she finally finds the record she was searching for.”

  • Jane Nelson, Amazon Reviews

  “FIVE STARS: Fun book, especially for a genealogist. There are many trails for the police to follow after a blackmailing librarian is murdered. The characters are interesting and the ones you think will wind up being suspects turn out to be just what they appear to be while others don’t. I could not put it down.”

  • Mitzy Moo “Eclectic Reader” Amazon Reviews

  “FOUR STARS: A clever murder mystery with a window into Canadiana, a small town librarian feels compelled to investigate what appears to be a simple murder.... but clearly isn’t. Our unlikely heroine finds her- self in the midst of intrigue, danger, and of course some romance. Written with just the right amount of attention to detail and interspersed with wit and humor, this book should be entertaining for both mystery lovers and genealogy enthusiasts alike.”

  • J. Summers (Florida), Amazon Reviews

  “FOUR STARS: Whoever said the life of a small-town librarian must be dull? As cadavers pile up, large sums of money change hands, deliberate “accidents” are narrowly averted and romances begin to blossom, the local police are still no wiser. It’s time for an amateur genealogist to step in and help solve the mystery.”

  • Nancy Pratt (France), Amazon Reviews

  The Facepainter Murders

  Virginia Winters

  From the River Publishing

  THE FACEPAINTER MURDERS

  DANGEROUS JOURNEYS SERIES, VOL. 2

  by Virginia Winters

  From The River Publishing

  ©2010 Virginia Winters. All Rights Reserved First Print Edition, Oct. 2011

  ©2017 Virginia Winters. all Rights Reserved. Second Print Edition, June, 2017

  Cover Design by Karen Phillips © 2017

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

  Sign-up here for my readers’ group

  Created with Vellum

  For my family

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Preface

  In the early years of the 21st century, genealogical information on the internet exploded with data available from multiple resources. Readers familiar with genealogy will note that most of those resources are not referenced in this book, which was written before they became available.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my friend, Barbara McFadzen, for the many Friday nights she has spent listening to me while I read the latest story or chapter to her.

  Thanks are due to the Lindsay Public Library, reference division for its invaluable help.

  Finally, thanks to editor Shelley Rodgerson Chase for all the extra hours she spent on the first edition of The Facepainter Murders.

  Chapter One

  Maggie danced around the body that lay face down in the muddy water remaining in the ditch after the afternoon rain. Anne grabbed the dog's collar and dragged her away from her find. She smelled it all the way from the house, she thought. That's why she was so frantic to get out here.

  She squatted by the head. A precise hole, visible in the tangled mass of blood and hair, marked an entry point above the right ear. No point in touching him, she thought. No point but someone would ask if she made sure he was dead. Her fingers felt through the water for his carotid pulse. Nothing. Nothing except that smell. Fighting the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her, she wiped her fingers on the grassy bank and stood up.

  "That's enough."

  She hauled Maggie through the gate onto the path. The protesting dog tugged the length of the garden and up to the kitchen door.

  Catherine swung around from the stove when the screen door slammed behind Anne.

  "There's a body in the ditch."

  Anne collapsed into a kitchen chair, out of breath from her tug-of-war with the dog.

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. How could I? I just got here; remember? Eighteen months since I was here last, and in all that time, did I find a body at home? No. Cross the border and here's another one, waiting for me in your back garden."

  The ghost of a smile at the lame joke crossed Catherine's pale face.

  "I'll call 911. No ambulance?"

  "Yes, he's gone. As are all his clothes. Whoever left him there took all his clothes away."

  "Naked?"

  "Absolutely. I should go back. You're supposed to stay with a body."

  Anne slumped against a pillar, watching the orange and black of an Oriole as it darted at the feeder. The garden was a mass of scarlet and ochre with brilliant strokes of indigo from the butterfly bushes. Far better, she thought, to stay here. The dog whined from the other side of the screen door. Behind her, Catherine spoke quickly to the 911 operator.

  "No, Maggie," she said as she hung up the phone.

  Anne forced herself off the porch and through the garden as far as the gate. She didn't go through but stood to look at the fields while she waited for the patrol car and the questions. There would be many questions, that, she knew. When she had found the murdered librarian on her last visit here, they'd been endless. She became involved with the investigation, and then she had almost died. Almost been killed. It had taken many months for the nightmares to stop.

  She waited by the body. The wind had picked up, rippling the water and giving an illusion of movement as it disturbed a few strands of the dark
hair. She shivered in the sudden chill as the sun fell below the trees. The wail of a siren, rising and falling in the distance, came closer and stopped when the patrol car turned into the lane. The murky water, reddened by the flashing lights, lapped the body as though it steeped in its blood. She shivered again as she turned to the voices of the policemen who walked towards her.

  "Hi, Dr. McPhail," said the taller of the two men, Dave Graham.

  Anne met Dave and his older brother, Pete on her previous visit.

  "Damn shame you have to find a body every time you come down to Vermont," said Pete, more lighthearted than his serious younger brother.

  "Was he dead when you got here?" asked Dave.

  "Yes. I smelled him, and so did the dog. That's why I came back here. The dog. She wanted to see what it was."

  "Do you recognize him?"

  "No."

  "How long have you been in the country, Doctor?"

  "I arrived yesterday."

  Pete stood back as Dave asked the questions. Maybe he thought he knew her too well. Everyone's a suspect until they're not, she remembered Adam saying to her.

  "Okay, you go back to the house now. Adam will be along to speak to you," Dave said to her as Pete muttered into his shoulder radio.

  "All right."

  Anne walked back through the garden, not noticing the few flowers picked out by the last rays of the sun.

  Catherine was pouring tea into gaily-painted ceramic mugs when Anne opened the screen door.

  "Do you want something to eat while we wait for Adam?"

  "I don't think I can. How do you know I'm waiting for Adam?"

  Catherine laughed.

  "Culver's is a small town, with one detective who investigates homicides. Besides, when the patrolman reported who found the body, Adam would come anyway. After all the help you were to him the last time you were here, I'm sure he wants to see you again."

  "Dave Graham didn't seem as friendly as last time. He seemed quite suspicious."

  "Don't worry. Adam knows you."

  "Yes, but two bodies in as many years?"

  Catherine didn't answer but turned to fill her teapot.

  "What is it?" Anne asked as she watched Catherine's fingers turn white where they encircled her cup.

  "Not the best advertisement for a bed and breakfast," she said, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "It's all I have, and the twins are going away to school next year."

  Catherine's husband died in the second year of their marriage, leaving her with the twins, the big old house and enough insurance money to bury him and start her business.

  "Should I go look at him? What if he's someone I know? What if he's been a guest here?"

  Now the cup shook. Anne reached over and held Catherine's hands. Cold, she thought. She needs her hot drink.

  "Wait until they come for us. Please drink your tea. You're very cold."

  An hour later, Anne waited for Adam in Catherine's little library. She left her little grey brick house in Bridgenorth, a small town in Ontario, the day before, leaving behind her Siamese cat, Albert. She considered bringing him this year but wasn't sure how Maggie would feel about a cat invading her domain. Maggie sat on her footstool, as usual, surveying her from behind grey bushy eyebrows. Half sheepdog, she needed to keep all her humans in sight. When Adam came in, she welcomed him with a few thumps of her slightly too short tail.

  "Hey, Maggie," he said, rubbing her ears. "Hello, Anne."

  His dark eyes and thin face looked more relaxed than last year, she thought, not as edgy. Catherine said that he was still seeing Erin, a local antique dealer.

  "Adam, I didn't hear the doorbell."

  "I came through the kitchen. How are you?"

  "Not too bad, considering."

  "Tell me about it."

  Anne told him about finding the body. "...and Maggie pushed ahead of me, so there will be dog prints. I hauled her out of there as soon as I was sure the man was dead."

  "Did you see or hear anything else?"

  "No. We heard a car in the lane before Maggie started barking, but no one was around when I went out."

  Adam settled back in his chair and looked at her: small, early forties, fair hair, green eyes set in a round face which bore an unexpected tan. She was a little thinner than last year, more grey in the fair hair, and a little tired-looking. Finding bodies could do that to you. He hoped neither she nor Catherine had any connection to the dead man. Anne was talking.

  "I've been so looking forward to this trip. I hope you'll have dinner with me."

  "I hope so too."

  He held out a small plastic bag with a torn scrap of paper in it.

  "Do you recognize this?"

  "Is it part of a ticket? I've not seen one like that, but I only got here yesterday."

  "We found it in the guy's hand."

  "What a strange thing to hold on to."

  Adam stood up.

  "Yes, it was. Catherine had to view the body. I hear them in the kitchen. Maybe she needs you."

  Catherine did indeed need her. Her thin body trembled and her dark eyes held a film of tears. Anne sat with her arm around Catherine until she stopped shaking.

  "Catherine, did you know him?" Adam asked.

  "No, I've never seen him before. Inhuman, somehow, to abandon him in a ditch."

  She looked across the table at Adam. "I don't think he's local."

  "Neither do I. Thanks, ladies and thank you, Maggie."

  He rubbed the ears of the worried-looking dog, sitting with her head on Catherine's knee, walked out into the night, and across the garden to where the crew worked.

  The forensics crew searched the lane and the roadside, moving like shadows in and out of the lights set up around the scene. The body was dumped, Adam thought. Why would he have a ticket in his hand if he saw the attack coming? What was the ticket for? After a few words with Pete, he drove back through town to the police station.

  The station was part of the courthouse complex on one side of the town square. Culver's Mills, population seventeen thousand, was a post-card-typical Vermont small town. The courthouse, clock tower and police station formed one side of the square. Opposite stood the white clapboard Methodist church. A short row of shops, including an antique store owned by Erin Maxwell—his special lady—and professional offices filled in one side; a restaurant, homes and the bank, the other. Brick pathways crisscrossed a small green space, centered on a heroic statue of the town's founder. Quelling the impulse to stop and see Erin, he parked in front of the courthouse and took the ten steps to the door two at a time.

  The police station occupied one wing of the courthouse building. The court's side was all polished marble floors and dark oak paneling, but once through the station doors, only the bright screensavers on the desk computers enlivened the institutional-green walls, grey vinyl floors and steel filing cabinets. Four desks were jammed in the middle of the room. Cables, secured to the floor with duct tape, snaked around and between them.

  "Brad," Adam said to his youngest officer, a computer expert.

  "Yeah, boss."

  Brad was tall and loosely put together, his friendly nature showing all over his face.

  "We have a problem. Our stiff out there has no clothes, no id. We'll need the fingerprints, dental impressions, maybe an artist. I don't think he'll photograph too well."

  "I'll borrow from Burlington if we need one. Was there anything else at the scene?"

  "This."

  Adam showed him the torn ticket. He noticed now that the two letters remaining were Cu suggesting it was for something in town.

  "Not like any ticket I've seen lately. I'll get a list of recent events from the paper and the rec center. Bars too. Sometimes they use tickets for bands."

  Brad picked up his phone to start his round of calls.

  "Circulate the motels and B and B's for missing guests and get the boys to check any abandoned vehicles. I'm going over to talk to Peg."

  "Will do," Brad said. />
  Peg was the owner of the local diner, Lil's, and it was dinner time.

  The diner sat diagonally across the square from the courthouse in an old stone building that had previous lives as a lumberman's office and a grocery store but was Lil's for the last fifty years.

  Adam walked past the statue in the middle of the park, automatically touching the toe for luck as he passed, and up the stairs to the door. Lil herself was long gone, but the décor remained the same. Red vinyl seats in comfortable booths filled the space in front of the windows on three sides. A white enamel counter, worn through to black in a few places, ran the length of the room. An old-fashioned, polished chrome milkshake maker stood at one end of the counter. Adam took one of the red and chrome stools and said hello to Peg.

  "Hi, Adam—usual?"

  Peg herself was thoroughly modern: close-cropped sandy hair, a pair of rimless glasses and a white shirt tied short over faded jeans.

  "Sure."

  Peg made the best chicken salad sandwiches, from her home-reared and home-cooked chickens he'd had anywhere, and he tried them everywhere. He looked around the room, recognizing everyone except a family with two kids who were enjoying themselves, spinning around on the stools. No singles.