The Facepainter Murders Read online

  The squad room was quiet. Brad hunched over a keyboard at the centre desk.

  "Hey, Dr McPhail, how are you?" he said when he spotted her across the room.

  "Great, Brad. Can you take these?"

  Anne smiled up at him. He worked with her last year, and she knew him to be a coffee fiend.

  "Thanks. Did you want to see Adam? He's in the office, but he has someone with him."

  "I think I'm supposed to join them."

  Anne peered at Adam's office, but the blinds were closed.

  "I'll tell him you're here."

  Adam's corner office overlooked the street on one side and, through a window, the squad room on the other. Even the door had a window in it. The first change Adam made when he received his promotion was to install blinds. A recycled desk, stacked with papers and files, and hard-backed chairs shared the only complete wall with a cabinet. Framed diplomas, hanging behind and a picture of Erin on it made the space a little more personal, but not by much. Brad held the door open for her.

  "Morning, Anne. I'd like you to meet James Trevelyan."

  The old man's craggy face, heavy plaid shirt, and green work pants held up by red suspenders reminded Anne unexpectedly of her long-dead father. She held out her hand, controlling the tears that threatened.

  "I'm Anne McPhail. I hope I can be of some use to you, Mr.Trevelyan."

  Suspicion clouded his faded grey eyes as he reluctantly shook her hand.

  "Huh. This young fella thinks those pictures didn't belong to me because some old woman told him my family died out. It didn't. Here I am."

  "We'll prove them wrong. Could you show me what you have so far?"

  He handed the file folder over. Anne expected a chaotic jumble, from Adam's description, but the folder was organized and tidy.

  He had an almost complete genealogical record, Anne decided. Documentation on his line included birth and death certificates back to Samuel Hall Leclerc in 1849. Anne's job was to find the link back to Samuel Hall and his portrait. The will that left Samuel's possessions and his house to his sister seemed genuine.

  Anne leaned back in the unyielding wooden chair.

  " Mr Trevelyan, I know some sources of information here in town that might help you. Do you want me to give you a list or do you want me to look at them and get back to you?"

  "Do you have to take my stuff?"

  What an anxious man, Anne thought. Aloud she reassured him. "No."

  "Then you do it. But tell me first, not this cop."

  Trevelyan stared defiantly at Adam.

  "What about it, Adam? You asked me to do this."

  The room became quiet with confrontation.

  "The genealogy stuff, sure. If you stumble across anything about either of these crimes, it's mine."

  "Mr Trevelyan?"

  "All I want is the family tree and my property."

  Anne accepted that as a yes as Adam nodded. Abruptly the old man stood and shook both their hands.

  "Thanks."

  He turned and limped toward the door, leaning heavily on his cane. He left the door open.

  Anne rapidly filled a yellow legal pad with her neat but illegible handwriting. She sketched an outline of a family tree from James to his great-grandmother Mildred Hall Leclerc and her father, Samuel Hall Leclerc.

  "You remembered all those names and dates, Anne? How?"

  "Practice. Often patients are nervous about you writing down the more sensitive parts of the history, so I learned to remember long enough to get it on paper when they left."

  "What now?"

  "I think I'll begin over at the Catholic Church. In the will, Samuel Hall forgives his sister for converting to Catholicism. The church has wonderful records, and the priest is pleasant and accommodating."

  Adam called to Brad from his office door.

  "Get the board, Brad."

  Adam started a line on the story board they used to keep track of investigations, with the dead man's name and picture at the top. He added a sidebar for Trevelyan.

  "What next?" asked Pete who had come in.

  "You make the rounds of the bars and motels. Brad, you check the security system at the library."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm going to Brownsville."

  Adam's route to Brownsville took him a hundred miles southeast into the Green Mountains. Mist shrouded the hills, muting the colours to mystic greys and blue-greens. The road wound upward in lazy curves, each bringing another throat-catching view. Azure pools filled in the scars on the land left by mining operations. At the lookout, Adam stopped to stand at the railing and enjoy the town, spread out on a grid below.

  Church spires punctuated the streets. The mountains surrounded and so overwhelmed it that the town appeared to be one of those miniature villages set up in year-round Christmas stores.

  The road spiralled into the town and followed the curve of the lakefront. In the nineteenth-century, the town was the centre of a granite-quarrying area, which supplied much of the stone for important public buildings in the state. Brownsville's quarrying history left it with a reputation as a tough and dangerous town then and now. Adam had been there on several investigations in the past, mostly into a seedy area of deteriorating company houses, not the genteel centre with its stone mansions on tree-lined streets.

  Adam's destination was another Carnegie library. How many of these libraries did Andrew Carnegie build, he wondered? Anne would likely know.

  This one was octagonal, raised on a cut-stone foundation. Inside the heavy oak door, six steps led up to the main floor. The children's library was to the right, adults to the left, and the art gallery downstairs. The chief librarian doubled as the curator of the art gallery.

  An elderly woman stood behind the desk, stamping library cards. No computer or scanner here yet.

  "Could I speak with Mr Abbott?" Adam asked, showing his police identification.

  "He's down in the gallery, back through the doors and downstairs."

  Adam took the stairs, followed by the clerk's curious gaze. The art gallery revealed itself as a long, windowless room, painted the shade of flat white curators in the sixties used to focus attention on the paintings and not the walls. Now it was more likely to be fuchsia or bright orange. The travelling show was still here, Adam thought, looking at the portraits hung on the walls.

  The door to an office to the left of the stairs was standing open. Adam knocked on the door frame.

  "Good morning," he said, showing his badge again, this time to a man standing behind his desk. "I'm Lieutenant Davidson, Culver's Mills police. I called earlier?"

  The other man was about thirty-five, with a muscular upper body. No fat anywhere. As for the rest: dark slicked hair, ears tight to the head but too big for it, dark eyes behind small, square, wire-rimmed glasses. Wound tight, he thought. Odd for a librarian, but what did he know? Maybe their lives were full of stress and drama. The stark furnishings of the room reflected the man, over-tidy, nothing personal to be seen.

  "Dan Abbott," the man said, putting out a hand that went with the small head. "What can I do for you?"

  "You reported the theft of two paintings from the shipment you got from Culver's Mills. I need to see whatever you have lef—cartons, seals. I see you've hung the show. Why did you go on unwrapping when you found the empty boxes?"

  "Because I came to them last, of course. I called the police as soon as I found the first empty box. The other pictures had to be hung for the opening of the show."

  Adam went on with his questions, ignoring the lengthy explanation.

  "Where did you unwrap?"

  "In the central gallery. It's the only space we have. I put the wrappers in the alcove. They were identical."

  The sweat glistened on his forehead and rivulets ran down either side of his face.

  Nervous, Adam thought. He wondered if this was usual for him or just when talking to one of the police, or was he hiding something.

  "Let me see what you have left."
>
  The crates, not boxes, were sturdy, lined with bubble wrap. The seals on each had been neatly sliced. Adam listened while the curator babbled on, repeating his assurances the boxes were intact when they reached him. Now sweat was starting to bead on his upper lip. They walked back to the office and sat.

  "Mr Abbott, what is your opinion on the value of the missing goods?"

  "Goods. I'm not a dealer or a shopkeeper, sir. The value is not my business."

  "Come on, Mr Abbott. You have to insure the stuff, and I'm sure you must read the trade journals."

  "The most I've ever read about a Belknap earning was in a report of an auction at Skinner's in Boston in 1995. A double portrait of children sold for about one hundred and seventy thousand dollars. The subject in the picture we were to receive was not so appealing. The sampler, on the other hand, was extremely fine, at eight to ten thousand. Together I think one hundred thousand would have been reasonable."

  "You seem to know a lot after all. Have you seen the pieces?"

  "No, never."

  "What would a thief do with them?"

  "I have no idea, Lieutenant. I suppose there is a black market, but I know nothing about that."

  "Will your insurance pay the loss?"

  "Certainly not. They were not stolen here. The security at Culver's Mills must be poor. Their insurance should have to pay."

  "We don't know where the theft occurred, Mr Abbott," Adam said as he stood up to leave. "We'll let you know."

  At the door to the stairs, Adam glanced back. The librarian had reached for his phone.

  Chapter Five

  The walk to the Catholic Church took Anne to the river and across the bridge. The water beneath tumbled and frothed its way over the weir. Above the dam, the expanse of the millpond reflected a neighborhood of large brick homes intermixed with some smaller houses. Renovations were resurrecting some of the fine old homes, turning them back into the single-family dwellings they once were.

  St. Mary's, itself a very old church, had received a face-lift with new roofing, new fencing (or at least paint on the old iron pickets), pointing of the brick and other necessary repairs. No improvement to the age-blackened oak door, she noted with relief. The church office, she remembered, was at the back, past the altar and through another oak door that was carved and pierced to match the paneling across the front of the church. Beyond the door, it was part workaday world and part ritual. The large office used by the priest for signing the register with wedding parties was to the right and beyond it the secretary's room.

  Ann knocked at the door.

  "Come in."

  An elderly red-haired woman with a cheerful round face sat behind the desk. Her green eyes and pale, freckled skin suggested Irish ancestry to Anne, and indeed, the lady introduced herself as Marg Kennedy.

  "Miss, dear, not that awful Ms. that always reminds me of an angry mosquito. What can I do for you?"

  "I was hoping that Father O'Brien would be here. He was very kind to me on my last visit."

  "No, dear, I'm afraid he isn't here. The poor old soul went to Burlington for a hip replacement. Won't be home till Saturday. Perhaps I could do something if it's not spiritual help you need."

  "It's about genealogy. Last time I visited, Father O'Brien allowed me to work in your archive."

  "Archive. Now that's a grand name for a little room. Certainly. Come along with me."

  Since her last visit, Anne noticed, a computer had been added, and a neat box of computer disks replaced a wall of files. All the old registers lay flat on Mylar-covered shelves.

  "What years would you like to see, dear?"

  "1800 to 1850. I'm interested in baptisms at that time." Anne was hoping to hear that those years were on the computer but no such luck. Mrs Kennedy showed her the registers for 1800 to 1840 She handed one to Anne.

  "This one takes in 1810-1812. Do you want to start with the earliest registers or do you want to take a lucky dip?"

  "I think I'll go for the lucky dip.

  Anne smiled, as she took the leather-bound volume. Miss Kennedy handed her white gloves used to protect the old paper from the acids and oils found on the skin.

  "I'll leave you, dear. Call me if you need to use the computer."

  "Thanks."

  Anne caressed the cracked, age-softened leather once before putting on the gloves and gingerly turning fragile pages. She found the entries for 1812, but not Thomas. She started back at 1800 in the first register and reached 1812 again when Miss Kennedy knocked at the door.

  "It's noon, Dr McPhail. Do you want to stay over lunch? I'm going home now."

  "Could I? Do you want me to lock up for you?"

  "Turn the lock and pull the door to."

  "Thanks so much."

  "Oh, you're very welcome. I hope you find those old folk."

  Half an hour later, Anne found him. The handwriting in the register changed, and in the elegant copperplate of the new priest she read Thomas Leclerc, infant son of Charity Hall and Alexander Leclerc, born June 1, 1814, baptized Sept. 18, 1814.

  Now she had Thomas Leclerc, son of Samuel's sister Charity, according to the old man. She needed to go further back, to find the link between Charity, Samuel and Thomas. A marriage record of Alexandre and Charity, which should be at St. Mary's and a baptism for Charity and Samuel which should be... where? Anne knew that there was an Episcopal church. Perhaps she would find it there. In the meantime, she was going back to Catherine's for lunch and to make a phone call.

  As they ate in Catherine's kitchen, Anne told Catherine about her morning at the police station and the church.

  "It looks like the church came into some money. New roof, new paint on the fence and a computer system in the archive."

  "People are always leaving money to the Catholic Church. Father O'Brien works hard for his for parishioners."

  "Not some of the blackmail money?"

  Anne referred to the case in which she had been involved, as she reached for her half of the stuffed croissant they were sharing for lunch.

  "No. Everything went back, as far as I know, to the people that were victims of that horrible woman. Would you like some soup?"

  "No thanks."

  "What are you doing this afternoon?"

  "Calling Thomas."

  Anne put down her sandwich and watched the birds at the feeder.

  "Are you still seeing him in Toronto?" Catherine asked after a few moments.

  "Yes, I am, but I'm not sure where we're going with this."

  "Does it have to go somewhere? Are you eager to get married again?"

  "Not really, so perhaps you're right, and I should see what happens."

  After they cleared up, Anne left a message at the Beauchamp home for Thomas and worked on her genealogy files. She was making herself tea when the phone rang.

  "Anne."

  "Hi, Thomas."

  "I wonder if you would come out to dinner with my mother and my daughter?" he asked.

  "I'd be delighted."

  Catherine looked a question at her from across the kitchen.

  "Dinner with his mother and one of his daughters."

  "The girls will be harder than the boy. Girls don't accept a new woman very well."

  "I'm going to dinner, not marrying the man."

  "I'm just saying."

  Anne drove out to the old stone house. With its deep-set windows and bright blue door, it was one of Anne's favorites among the homes in Culver's Mills. A young woman in a maid's uniform answered the door and welcomed Anne.

  "Mrs Beauchamp is in the sitting room, Doctor," she said when Anne introduced herself. "Please follow me."

  The decorating of the house showed two hands at work, or maybe three. The architecture had been opened up, and the walls painted light colors, but the furniture comprised American antiques of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Those were Mrs Beauchamp's taste, Anne knew. On the other hand, the art was solidly twentieth-century, some representational, some not. Anne's
favorite was a Canadian painting, from one of the Beaver Hall group of women painters from Montreal. Thomas, she suspected, or perhaps Claire, his art student daughter.

  "Anne, how lovely to see you again."

  Mrs. Beauchamp's stately figure rose from her straight-backed armchair. She kissed Anne and gestured her to a companion chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  "Thomas is a bit delayed, but I expect him in a few minutes. Tell me what you have been doing since we last met."

  Anne took a barge trip in France, and they talked about her experiences until they heard the front door open and Thomas's deep voice greet the maid.

  Thomas Beauchamp, heir to the Beauchamp fortune, businessman, and world-class skier as a young man was a lithe and tanned fifty, with his mother's black eyes and prominent nose. He bent over to kiss his mother and then embraced Anne. His dark eyes smiled into hers.

  "It's so good to see you again, but what's this I hear about you finding a body?"

  "A body." his mother said. "Not again, Anne?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  She told them about finding the body and what Adam asked her to do.

  "Try to stay out of trouble this time," Thomas said.

  "Oh, there isn't any danger. It's research."

  At that their dinner was announced as Claire came in and the conversation turned elsewhere.

  Chapter Six

  Pete took the quick left to Commerce Road. A run-down motel sat at the end of a street of warehouses and factories. You had to know it was here, he thought. Maybe someone local put Andrews onto it if he stayed here.

  Two cars were parked in front, one by the manager's office, the other further along at unit three unit. A red-tiled roof gave the place its name—Red Roof Inn. A rusting eavestrough clung to the roof line. Below, tobacco-brown stains marked the white stucco exterior.

  Six units: three up, three down. Black paint peeled from the railings along the stairs and outside corridor. A row of vending machines with the usual—chips, pop, chocolate bars—marked the manager's office; an afterthought tacked on to the end of the row. A short man with brown skin and black hair huddled over a computer at a desk in the corner of the office. No one was at the counter.