The Facepainter Murders Page 12

  "No, I didn't. I saw Dan Abbott earlier, but no one else."

  "As soon as I can travel, I'm going home. Maybe the day after tomorrow, the doctor said."

  "That's too bad. You were looking forward to a pleasant holiday, this year."

  "Yes, I was. I hope life will be more peaceful in Bermuda next month."

  "You're going to Bermuda, too? Adam and I are going as well next month."

  "Yes, I'm going to visit my sister and her family."

  "Have you been before? Can you tell me something about it?"

  "Sure."

  The conversation wandered into what to eat, where to stay, and what to see on the little island Anne loved.

  Erin's seat overlooked the square.

  "That's odd," she said, interrupting Anne's description of the Bermuda Art Gallery.

  "The Gallery isn't odd."

  "No, what Adam did was odd. He was driving along the square toward the courthouse, but when he got to the corner, he accelerated and took the road north, fast."

  "Must have had a call."

  "I guess. Do you have plans for the afternoon?"

  "I'm going to do some shopping, and I have an appointment to meet with Ted Atkins. I usually don't talk to the press, but I owe him. He saved my life last year, you remember?"

  "Yes. But doing that saved him too. He had been so depressed since he lost his wife and daughters in a terrible crash. After he saved you, he stopped drinking and started living again."

  She leaned closer to whisper, "And he's seeing Peg."

  "Is he? I thought she was looking better because of the money."

  "Oh, no. By the way, did you tell Adam you were going to talk to Ted?"

  "No. I won't say anything specific to Ted. I'd better go if I'm going to make the appointment. See you later."

  She walked back to Catherine's, enjoying the autumn sunshine. Someone somewhere was burning leaves, and the lovely, acrid scent drifted over the town.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ted Atkins lounged across from the diner, watching the activity around the square and the elegant car parked in front of Lil's. He saw Anne go in for lunch, watched Adam accelerate out of the square, but kept his eye on the Porsche. A story from the widow might be worthwhile for the Saturday paper if he could get her to talk.

  Alisse lingered in her window seat for a few minutes after her lunch, twiddling with a spoon and staring out the window. Finally, she left, drawing curious glances and leaving a wake of furtive whispers as she walked the length of the diner as smoothly as though she were on a runway in Paris.

  The engine of Ted's car protested twice before it turned over and caught. He moved out to follow Alisse as she took the northwest exit from the square. No need to follow too closely, he thought. Taking this route, she was likely going back to the inn where she had been staying since she had arrived in town. He didn't notice the truck that followed him as he turned onto the county road.

  The Inn on the Shore had taken over the property of a nineteenth-century estate, whose lovely gardens opened onto the shore of Lake Champlain. Although built as a farmhouse, the house had been enlarged over the years and now had an enviable reputation for its cuisine and comfort. Alisse parked her car behind the inn under the shade of an outbuilding that had sheltered carriages and weary horses in days past. Her heels clicked on the bricks of the courtyard. The door of the inn escaped her nervous fingers and slammed shut. The woman dusting in the hallway looked up in surprise.

  "Oh, I am sorry to have disturbed you."

  Alisse swept past on her way up the stairs, not looking at the other woman.

  Once she was inside her room, tears coursed down in black rivulets over the elegant cheekbones. Alisse let them come. She had loved John, criminal though he might have been. The thought of his imagined infidelity had made her want to leave him. Now she felt the vast space his death left in her life. She wanted to go home, but they hadn't released him to her, and she wasn't going to leave him here alone.

  As the tears subsided, she thought about arrangements she had to make. Perhaps the Inn could recommend a local funeral home to help her.

  The jangle of the phone startled her. Not the police again, she thought, for who else would call her here.

  "Mrs. Bertrand, a visitor for you. His name is Ted Atkins."

  "What does he want?"

  "He didn't say."

  "A moment."

  Anything to distract her, she thought.

  Ted hadn't known what an astonishingly beautiful woman she was. As she floated down the stairs, he stood up, straightening his tie, and passing a hand over his unruly hair.

  "Mrs. Bertrand, thanks for seeing me. I'm Ted Atkins with the Culver's Mills Watchman.

  "I didn't realize you were the press. I have no comment. Please leave me in peace."

  "Did you know the local TV station is suggesting, not so subtly, that you were part of your husband's gang and that your arrest is imminent and that is why you're still here."

  "That is not true."

  Her face paled, and her lovely mouth drew into a thin line.

  "Maybe we should go outside," Ted suggested with a glance at the woman who lingered nearby, dusting the objects in the sitting room.

  "Very well."

  They walked across the parking area and onto a brick path, through the garden, across a meadow and down to a bench where the grass and flowers fell away to sand and the water. Seagulls swooped in their aerial dance, their raucous calls punctuating the beauty of their flight.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  "It takes a while, but the pain goes away a little, and you can breathe again."

  "You have lost someone also?"

  "My wife and child."

  "Both."

  She turned to him, her eyes brimming over.

  "I am so sorry."

  "It was bad for a long time, but now I've met someone, and life is starting to be good again.

  "Perhaps your wife was not a thief?"

  "No, but does the fact he was a thief change your feelings for him?"

  "Non, non," her voice trailed away as she turned to the lake again.

  Ted leaned forward, gripping his hands between his knees. A piece of the bench tore away, and a bullet hit the sand beside his feet. Screaming filled the air, but he couldn't tell if it was Alisse or the seagulls, as he dragged her onto the sand and behind a hillock that offered a little protection. "Who's shooting at us?"

  She clutched at Ted's coat.

  "At you, you mean."

  "At me?"

  "Someone thinks you know something. Keep your head down."

  He pushed her head into the sand as another bullet pounded into the beach. He reached 911, shouting his location to the operator. More shots. He dragged Alisse along the sand crawling behind the meagre cover of the eroded shoreline. The sound of the shots had brought people out of the Inn and the barns. Yelling voices mixed with the roar of a vehicle somewhere close. Quiet, and then the calls were for Allise. They lay on the sand for long moments waiting for the callers to reach them, reluctant to leave the safety of the little hill of grass and sand. The distant wail of a siren assured them of rescue.

  Ted cautiously raised his head as the concierge from the inn appeared beside the bench.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "No," Allise whispered.

  Fear twisted the lovely features, turned into a mask by the clinging sand. Blood dripped from her arm, staining the soft cream of her shirt. Her body slumped, and he caught her and supported her up and over the edge of the meadow and onto the path. Workers from the inn crowded the path. Beyond them, Ted could see police cars arriving.

  "Why does someone want to kill me?" Alisse whimpered.

  "Your husband's partners, tying up loose ends."

  "I don't know anything."

  "They don't know that."

  An ambulance had arrived, and Ted stood nearby as the paramedics bandaged the wound in Alisse's arm. H
e phoned a quick report to the paper and called for a photographer. After the crew left with Alisse, he spoke to the county police and drove to town. He had an appointment to talk to Anne McPhail.

  "Hi," Ted called, as he climbed out of his dilapidated car. Anne was sitting on the porch. "Would you like to go somewhere for a coffee to do this?"

  "Sure, let's go to Tim's."

  They took their drinks and Ted's cruller to a table in the corner. Ted told Anne more details of the shooting at the Inn.

  "Will she be all right?" Anne asked.

  "I think so. The bullet hit her shoulder, but she was breathing okay."

  "Afterwards is hardest. I still dream about last year. That's why I am worried about those two little boys. Such a terrible experience may lead to post-traumatic stress syndrome. They need some counseling."

  Anne was careful to avoid any mention of the work she was doing for Adam but did tell Ted more about the syndrome she had mentioned and suggested the boys needed a stable and compassionate home to recover from their ordeal.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The office patched Tabitha's call to Adam as he reached the square. Calling Pete to meet him, he took the Grass Lake Road towards the old house the boys described. When he closed on the blue Honda, he switched on his siren, but the little car ahead accelerated, disappearing into a tight s-curve to the right the road took before it reached the old Bassett house. Too fast, Adam thought.

  The driver lost control at the right turn. The car arced off the hill hit a stand of old pine growing out of a mound of rock, flipped, and caught fire. A plume of black smoke rose from the burning car. He put through the call for the emergency crew.

  He slid down the embankment, but couldn't get close to the burning car. His eyes and throat burned from the dense smoke that shrouded the car and its driver.

  Dammit, where was that fire truck? Two minutes passed. A siren sounded in the distance. Police. A cruiser skidded to a stop.

  "Adam, get the hell up here. The car's gonna blow again."

  Adam turned toward Pete's frantic voice and scrambled up the hill. A blast of heat and sound reached them.

  "Christ, Adam, what were you doing?"

  "I couldn't reach him."

  "Good. You'd be dead now too."

  Only the roar and crackle of the fire broke the silence. Five more minutes passed before the fire-trucks arrived.

  The firefighter interrupted the flow of Adam's tirade.

  "Sorry, Lieutenant. We were at a barn fire the other side of Culver's. We came as quick as we could."

  "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. It was over from the time he left the road."

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  The firefighters sprayed foam onto the burning car. They talked to the county police who answered the call.

  "We still going out to the old Bassett property?" Pete asked.

  "Yeah."

  Grandma Bassett's property copied her son's. Car parts and broken vehicles filled most of the yard. In front, the ghosts of garden beds ringed by half-buried tires suggested someone cared a little, likely the grandmother.

  "Are we going in?" Pete asked.

  "Not now. With the guy dead, we can wait for a warrant. I want you to stay here while I speak to the judge. If Bassett shows up, call for backup if you can before arresting him. I'll be back in half-an-hour or so."

  "I dealt with him before."

  "Yeah, but take the shotgun."

  Before Adam left for town, they circled the house and barn, looking for signs of recent activity. Nothing. Pete settled into a weathered rocker on the shabby front porch, his shotgun across his knees, as he watched Adam leave.

  Adam was back in less than the promised half hour. As he drove up, he took a closer look at the property. Clapboard once painted white, now aged to grey, covered the two stories. Weathered black shutters outlined most of the windows. No broken glass, though. The porch hung from the front of the house, propped at each end by a stack of concrete blocks. The front door was a surprise—new and fitted with an expensive lock.

  "Want me to take out the lock with the shotgun?"

  "No, let's try the back first. These locks are expensive. Maybe they went for a cheaper model for the kitchen door."

  The back door was as fortified as the front, but a kitchen window wasn't. Pete climbed through and let Adam in.

  Stacks of boxes, most containing electronics, competed for space with the few remaining pieces of furniture. It was going to take a week to inventory the stuff, Adam thought.

  "There's a sort of office in here with a computer. Want me to see what's on it?" said Pete.

  "Sure. Find me a list of suppliers."

  Upstairs he found a room also fitted with a new door. Not locked though. The hum of some equipment came through.

  Inside, the humidity control unit sang away to itself. A corner held a pile of the thin, oblong, packing cases like those in the library in Brownsville. Empty. Whatever was in the room to justify its expense was long gone. Paintings, he thought. Andrews was an art thief. Was the accident victim an accomplice? But who cleaned out the room? Someone who wanted the pictures, he guessed but not the electronics. Not too portable.

  "Pete," he called, "we need a crew to work this place for evidence. Call it in."

  "Okay. Nothing down here. I couldn't find anything on the computer, but Brad might be able to recover something. What about the barn? Want me to take a look?"

  "Wait for me."

  The barn was a drive shed. Two trailers and a pickup truck, all empty, filled the main floor. Pete checked the loft but found nothing.

  When the crew had arrived to go over the house and barn, Adam and Pete left them to it and drove back to town, stopping at the accident scene. A tow truck winched the burned-out car up the slope. The car was stolen in Burlington two days before. Identification of the dead man was going to take some time unless Tabitha Young had a decent description for him.

  Tabitha had a surprise for Adam, not a description, a portrait. She had drawn a careful sketch. The small head with its ears tight to it, slicked-back hair and small chin belonged to Dan Abbott, the Brownsville librarian. Another criminal librarian. What went on in those places? Adam thanked Tabitha and headed back to the station.

  Now Adam had three: Bassett, Abbott and Andrews.

  Someone else had the art.

  The media, represented by Ted Atkins, one TV reporter with a cameraman, and a young woman who free-lanced for the major Burlington paper, met Adam at the steps of the courthouse.

  "Nothing at the moment, ladies and gentlemen."

  Adam strode by and on up the steps, closing off their protests with the heavy oak door. What the hell had happened?

  "What's going on, Brad?"

  Brad jumped to follow Adam into his office, closing the door behind him.

  "A shooter out at the Inn on the Lake. Ted Atkins was out there interviewing Alisse Bertrand. They were sitting down by the lake when bullets flew by. The first one missed them, but the second one caught her in the shoulder. She's at the hospital. The sheriff let Atkins go, and he hasn't been back to his paper yet."

  "He's outside the door. Go get him."

  Pallor and fatigue marked Ted's face as he came in and collapsed on one of the hard-backed chairs in Adam's office. He passed his hand over his head and settled back.

  "What the hell's happening, Adam?"

  "You tell me. Why is someone trying to kill you? Where have you been poking around?"

  Ted gripped the arms as he leaned forward in his chair.

  "Whoever it was, was shooting at her, not me.”

  "Was anyone following her out there?"

  "No, I didn't notice a damn thing until the shot hit the seat behind me, and then all I could think of was getting her down and getting behind something."

  "What did you hear?"

  "Hear? Nothing."

  Ted frowned and rubbed his hand over his face again.

  "Something?"
/>
  "Maybe a truck, a big engine, taking off."

  "Do you think she's in it?"

  "No."

  "What have you been doing?"

  "Not much. Talking to people about Bassett."

  "Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "He might have been taking a trip. He's been in and out of the travel agent—the woman with the wigs—a couple of times. That's about all. I have to file, Adam, so if you have nothing else?"

  Ted stood up and moved towards the door.

  "You remember anything, you call me. Don't wait to publish. And watch your back."

  Ted waved a hand at him as he closed the door.

  "Sure."

  Brad had tapped a chart of the investigation to the wall of Adam's office. Adam added the shooting, with a tentative link to the travel agent. Dying rays from the sun stained the chart a vivid red for a few minutes.

  "I'm going, boss," Brad called.

  Adam called the hospital, hoping to be able to interview Alisse, but she had been airlifted to Burlington for surgery on her shoulder. He would have to see her when he went down to his law class.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Anne snuggled under the quilts, allowing the chill morning air to catch the tip of her nose. Winter was surely coming, though the sky she glimpsed through the branches outside her promised a bright day. It's the end of September, she thought. No snow yet.

  She threw off the covers. Today, she and Catherine were going to visit the old mill, and Catherine said earlier would be better. There were still tourists in town.

  An eighteenth-century gristmill consists of three parts, read the information posted at the entrance. An outer freestanding structure rests on its foundation while an inner building houses the milling equipment. The water works, comprising a wheel, dam, millrace and pond, lie outside the two. The outer and inner walls don't connect, preventing wear and tear on the outer building. A stairwell leads from the entrance floor to the main floor. The exterior wall is punctuated by windows.