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Beverly picked up the menu to order a room-service breakfast but decided to hit the Apple Valley Resort’s tea room instead. It gave her a chance to catch up with Gloria, the waitress who was still grateful for Adam Dutton putting her scoundrel husband behind bars.
Gloria couldn’t sing Adam’s praises high enough. Did she have her eye on Adam? But then Gloria told her how getting rid of her abusive ex—and realizing there were decent men out there like Adam—had encouraged her to date a better class of men.
After some of the tea room’s espresso and locally famous hazelnut cream chocolate-chip scones, Beverly headed to her rental car. She plugged the address on the piece of paper Mr. X gave her yesterday into the car’s GPS.
The pewter-colored skies threatened precipitation, but the above-average temps meant anything that fell would be a rain-snow mix. Most of the snow left over from a week ago had melted away. But, as she pulled into the parking lot of the lodge, she had to navigate around an obstacle course of plowed piles. They should be called “snowbiles,” with soot and pollution turning them black.
The Salt Rock Lodge and Conference Center lodge itself was of a stereotypical New England faux-alpine style. The A-frame looked large enough to accommodate a few hundred people. Certainly large enough for a bunch of Medieval re-enactors to practice sword fights.
She opened the front door and easily found the office, where she introduced herself to the lone occupant as a “police consultant.” The man’s name was Braddon Hopper, who she learned served as secretary for the local Society of Creative Anachronism. He looked to be around thirtyish and athletic, with shoulder-length dark blond hair. How very anachronistic of him.
Right as she started to ask him questions about Wallace Ryall, in walked Adam Dutton and Eliot Jinks. When Adam caught sight of her, he scowled, but Jinks had an amused look on her face.
Adam quickly took charge, which made the confused Braddon turn to Beverly and ask, “Who did you say you worked with?”
“Them,” and she pointed at the two detectives.
Jinks cleared her throat loudly, and Adam turned to scowl at her, too. He finally said to Braddon, “I understand Wallace Ryall was a member of your group.”
“He’s our Rapier Marshal. Was our Rapier Marshal.”
“What’s that?”
“The Rapier Marshal’s responsible for safety on the battlefield. Oversees the Combat Marshal, looks for violations like non-combatants entering the field. And makes policy decisions. Has to know tournament protocol inside and out.”
“Like a combination of referee and administrator.”
“Kind of, I guess.” Braddon frowned. “But it’s more important than you make it sound.”
“Sorry. Just trying to understand what Ryall did. You use swords in your tournaments, correct?”
“In Armored Combat events. But they’re made of rattan. And the axes and maces are padded.”
“You wouldn’t use a replica sword made of steel like a Claymore, Falchion, or Katana? Or a Tritonia?” Prospero’s lecture on swords didn’t make Adam an expert, though it did give him a better understanding of Medieval weapons. But he was more interested in Braddon’s reaction to the mention of the Tritonia.
Braddon didn’t bat an eyelash as he replied, “No steel swords, antiques, or replicas. It’s against the rules.”
“You never use them?”
“Some of the guys use them for fun. But not for competition.”
“Was there anyone in the Society who didn’t get along with Wallace Ryall? Even threatened him?”
This time, Braddon hesitated. “No one I know about. You can come back some evening when there are practices and ask around.”
“We’ll do that. What is your role here?”
“I’m, ah, a secretary. But I hope to work my way up. This isn’t my main job, though. I run my father’s lighting business. And I teach fencing. Freelance.”
“Fencing?”
“The Society uses a modified form of fencing for tournaments, but I won the American Nationals sabre fencing championship. Went to the Olympics.”
Braddon seemed unusually defensive to Beverly. Did Adam see that, too? Braddon reminded Beverly of a former boyfriend, stuck in adolescent dreams instead of adult reality. Or maybe he’d realized he peaked in his early twenties, and it was all downhill from here. That happened to many athletes, one reason she’d stayed far away from sports. That, and all the pesky exercise involved.
She piped up, “Did Wallace have a girlfriend, Braddon? Someone in the Society, perhaps?” She ignored Adam’s glare aimed in her direction.
“He used to date Fern Gery. She wasn’t a member, so I don’t know much about her. If it’s the girl I saw him bring to a tournament once, she’s a looker. Tall, blond, blue eyes. The model type. You know, like Candice Swanepoel or Gisele Bündchen.”
Adam did a pretty job of masking his confusion, but Beverly could tell the names didn’t register. She cast a sideways glance at Jinks, who had a smirk on her face.
Beverly asked, “They aren’t dating now? What happened?”
“He didn’t say, I didn’t ask.” Braddon waved his arm in the air, but in so doing, he knocked over his cup of coffee and grabbed some paper towels. “Great. There goes my mud coffee.”
That was a new one to Beverly, so she asked, “Mud?”
“What I call it. Espresso, the more bitter, the better. With extra shots.”
“I see. So Wallace didn’t have any new girlfriends?”
“Don’t know of any. But he’s not the kind of guy to attract ‘em, you know?”
Beverly wanted to press him on this, but Adam butted in again. “Did Wallace talk about his father much?”
“Plenty. One of those love-hate things. Or he loved his father’s money more. Did everything he could to get in the old man’s good graces. But look how that turned out.”
“The will?”
“Hell, yeah. Wallace was livid when the estate went to that antiques store guy. Said he’d do everything necessary to get it back.”
“Did he say how he planned on doing that?”
“Wallace was like a balloon, all gas and hot air. Pile the least little bit of weight on him and down he goes.”
“I see. Thanks for your time, Mr. Hopper. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions. And if you think of anything to add,” Adam handed over his card, “Call.”
Beverly walked out of the lodge with Jinks and Adam, who wasn’t saying a word. She waited for the tirade to come, but she got a reprieve when Jinks literally ran into a stranger outside the lodge.
Jinks apologized, then asked the man, “Do you work here?”
This man was slightly older and taller than Braddon. He had even longer hair with a full beard and mustache and definitely looked the part of a Medieval knight. Beverly had the notion she should look around for his white horse.
He said, “I’m a park ranger. Name’s Joss Warder.”
Jinks followed up, “But you belong to the Society for Creative Anachronism?”
“I am a Territorial Baron. You may address me as ‘Your Excellency, Richard Symonnet.’ That’s my Society rank and pseudonym.”
Jinks turned to Beverly and rolled her eyes. “Mr. Warder, I’m Detective Jinks. And this is Detective Adam Dutton, and Beverly Laborde, a—”
Beverly piped in, “Consultant.”
“We’re looking into the death of Wallace Ryall. Did you know him well?”
“Only through the Society. Our Canton of Vaodien is part of the Kingdom of the East. I knew Ryall as Dulcitius Vriend, our local Rapier Marshal.”
Adam asked, “What about Braddon Hopper?”
“Braddon? You mean, Manfred Urdangarin. If you’re looking for SCA members who might harbor Dulcitius—I mean Wallace—ill will, he’d be a good start.”
“And why is that?”
“Braddon’s been gunning for the Rapier Marshal position for years. Kept egging on Wallace to retire. They argued about it all the time. Poor Braddon. Had a bright future, going to the Olympics and all. Alas, when he returned, his father had a stroke.”
Jinks whipped out her notebook to write down the details as Warder continued, “With no health insurance, Braddon had to take over his father’s lighting business to pay for medical bills. That’s why he hasn’t moved somewhere he could teach fencing on a more competitive level, say a university or nationals.”
Adam asked, “He went to the Olympics?”
“Placed eighth. That’s a big deal in the fencing world, even if it isn’t to Americans who only care if you bring home the gold.”
Adam thanked “The Baron,” who headed on inside. Beverly steeled herself for the lecture, but once again she was saved, this time by the ringing of Jinks’s cellphone. From Jinks’s end of the conversation, Beverly guessed it had something to do with her kids.
Jinks verified this when she hung up and told Adam, “Jacob’s sick. The school wants me to come and pick him up.”
He said, “Then you should go. You can drop me off at the station first.”
Beverly gave him a sweet smile, “That will waste precious time. You shouldn’t make a sick child wait. Jinks can take your car, you can ride with me, and I’ll drop you at the station.”
Jinks punched Adam on the arm. “Thanks, partner. I’ll call you later.”
Adam opened his mouth to protest, but Jinks was already half-way to the car. As they watched her drive away, Beverly said, “Where do we go next?”
“We? Next?” Adam shook his head at her, but Beverly added, “The clock’s ticking for Harlan, Adam. Taking you straight back to the station will take a half-hour.”
Adam growled. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. Not after that stunt you pulled yesterday at Harlan’s shop. We chatted with Prospero this morning.”
Beverly felt a warm flush in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Adam. Truly. I had no idea your officer was there. I only wanted to talk to Prospero. And when I found the back door open—”
“It really was unlocked?”
“Of course. Did you think I picked the lock?”
“I know you can pick a lock if you want to.”
She sighed. “This is getting us nowhere. We both want the same thing, to exonerate Harlan. Let me help. I’m not just going to sit on my hands. So, I ask again. . .where do we go next?”
Adam matched her sigh with a bigger one. “There is one place I want to stop by, and due to your connection, maybe it would be a good idea to drag you along.”
“Where?”
“Dartmouth-Hitchcock hospital. Where your uncle is in ICU.”
She grimaced. “Make sure he really is still comatose?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, then.” She wasn’t looking forward to seeing The Monster again in person, even comatose. But she’d do anything for Harlan. And having Adam as company wasn’t all that bad, was it? Her stomach did its impression of an Olympics somersault at the thought, and she could only hope Mr. X and Ralph Waldo Emerson were right about that “trusting your instincts” bit.
§ § §
Beverly pointed the car along US-4 toward I-89, not daring to look at Adam. After a couple of minutes of silence, he said, “Do you not trust me?”
She was so surprised by his question, she almost veered off the road. “Absolutely, I trust you. You’re an A-plus detective.” And she really did mean it.
“Then why this go-behind-my-back stunt? After our last ‘outing,’ I thought we had an understanding. About that whole trust thing.”
“Trust is something that comes hard for me.”
“Apparently.”
She bit her lip. “After my parents died in that car crash when I was four, I hated them for a long time. Told myself they’d deliberately died so they could leave me behind.”
“Beverly—”
“It’s okay. I’m over that now. Grammie was my anchor, but when Forsythe’s political shenanigans stole her livelihood, she left me, too—going downhill fast, dying in that horrid nursing home.”
“It isn’t the same as committing suicide. She wasn’t intentionally leaving you behind.”
“Close enough. Losing everything she’d worked so hard for was rough for her, I get that. But I hoped having me in her life would give her something to hold on to.”
“It wasn’t you, Beverly. Stress can affect your immune system, your heart, lungs. If you’re older and have a bad ticker, it can be deadly. From what you’ve told me, she would never abandon you. She took you in when your parents died, right? She didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. And if she hadn’t, it would have been the foster care system for me. Adam, I’m sorry if it looked like I was trying to undermine you. It’s just that, along with Agnes, Harlan feels like the closest thing to a family member I’ve got left.”
“Me, too.” He rubbed his hand along the dashboard. “But this has to be done right. The mayor’s on my case, which means the chief is under pressure. And the prosecutor won’t care squat about how we feel toward Harlan. Unless he determines our behavior constitutes an unfair bias.”
“My offer to be your unofficial partner was genuine. And with Jinks’s son ailing, seems like you could use the help.”
He uttered a noncommittal “Hmm.”
Beverly gave him a quick sideways glance. He had an expression she hadn’t seen on him before—pain, but not the physical kind. Was Harlan the cause? Or was she? She couldn’t think of anything to help, so she changed the conversation. “Why did she name him Jacob Jinks? I can only imagine the teasing he gets.”
“She thought it was easy to remember. For when he’s a rich doctor or lawyer someday. Or runs for office.”
“Heaven forbid.”
Adam grunted out, “Amen to that. Between Lehmann and the Forsythes, I’ve had enough of politicians and corruption.”
“I do feel sorry for poor Representative Strudwick, though. Got caught in the middle.”
“He was blackmailed by the Forsythes to push through their political agenda. When he became a liability, he was killed.”
“After he talked to me.”
“Beverly, that’s not why he was killed.”
She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. “It’s true, and you know it. Sometimes I think I should have left everything alone. Maybe none of the deaths would have happened if I hadn’t taken it upon myself to play avenging angel. Perhaps Zelda was right.”
“Zelda?”
Beverly shook her head. She was not going to go there. Not then, maybe not ever. The subject of Adam’s ex-wife was too testy for both of them.
Adam went quiet again, although she didn’t feel as much tension radiating from his body. His very appealing body. Damn the man for knowing how to wear a suit, and that white shirt with the light silver tie was casually alluring. Very unprofessional thoughts, Beverly. What was there about this man that threw her composure totally out of whack?
“If it helps, Adam, Mr. X said he didn’t think whoever framed Harlan is related to the Forsythe mess.”
“Since Xenakis was an inside man in the Forsythe organization himself, once, I guess that counts for something.”
“And the Society for Creative Anachronism lead seems hopeful.”
“They all do, at first. We sometimes go through dozens of suspects in a case. It can take months to navigate all the lies and alibis.”
The GPS voice cheerily chimed in, reminding Beverly to veer off onto I-89. She said, “I hate that voice.”
Adam turned toward her. “Oh, really? She sounds a little like you.”
“Horrors, no.”
Adam laughed. “Actually, you have a much nicer voice.”
“Thanks.”
One more turnoff and they were soon pulling up beside the hospital. Beverly found a place to park but didn’t turn off the engine right away. “So this is where they took my uncle after he shot himself.”
“Yep. By helicopter.”
The images from that night were etched as if lasered into her brain. Forsythe’s gun pointed at Adam, getting ready to pull the trigger. Then the arrival of Jinks and the cavalry. Forsythe turning the gun on his own head, toppling like a bloody totem pole.
She said, “When I saw him lying there on the ground after he shot himself, I thought he was dead. And I felt anger.”
“Not relief?”
“That came later. I was angry at the evil person he’d been, angry at what he’d done. To Grammie, to you. He tried to kill you—three times!” Her voice didn’t sound all that “nice” to her ears. Shrill, scared, uncertain.
Adam looked at her intently. “Are you sure you’re up to this? If you want to stay out here, I can—”
“No. Let’s go in.” She turned off the engine and climbed out of the car.
Once inside, Adam showed his credentials to the staff, and they were led to the new high-tech critical care wing. They passed a central nursing station, and their guide pointed to one of the patient rooms in the corner.
After the guide left, Beverly and Adam approached the room, only to find they weren’t alone with the patient. A man as tall as Adam, but built more like a linebacker, stood inside Forsythe’s room. He didn’t look like staff, with his jeans and an auburn parka that matched his neatly trimmed red beard. The man took one look at Adam and ran from the room.
Adam said to Beverly, “Stay here,” and gave chase.
What should she do? Adam was faster than she was, and her presence might distract him enough to let the stranger get away. Forsythe’s room was the better option.
She tiptoed toward the bed then had to laugh at herself for it. What was a man in a coma going to do, make a charge at her? She’d hated this man for so long, now that she saw him like this, she wasn’t sure how to feel.
She had thoughts of her grandfather whisking this man away from Grammie as a child and the family estrangement. Then Reggie growing up to be far darker and more sinister than his father. Unpleasant memories, all. Yet, she still didn’t feel anything.
Maybe it was the fact this pale, shell-of-a-man in the bed—attached to a ventilator, feeding tubes, IV fluids, and monitors—hardly resembled The Monster she knew. Not someone capable of killing Wallace Ryall and framing Harlan. But he had a wide reach, with many tentacles of his octopus-like criminal enterprise still growing and thriving in a dark, dangerous sea.
Was it one of those “tentacles” who was in the room when they arrived? Whoever it was recognized Adam and didn’t want to be seen here. But why run? If he’d stayed, he could have pretended to be a visiting friend
She didn’t have to wait long all by herself when Adam soon strolled into the room with an exasperated look. “Couldn’t catch him, and he had a driver waiting. They were off before I had a chance to get the plate.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No, but I can input his description into our database. Maybe he doesn’t like cops.” Adam unbuttoned his jacket and wiped some sweat off his forehead.
Beverly drew closer to the bed. “They say people in comas can hear you.”
“Here’s your chance. What do you want to say to him?”
“Other than call him a rat-ass heartless bastard, you mean?”
Adam smiled, and she added. “I guess I have one word to ask. And that’s ‘why?’”
“That, Beverly, is the question hounding us detectives each and every single day.”
“He had everything. Money to buy anything, any woman he wanted. Why risk losing it all by scamming defenseless people out of their life savings?”
As she realized what she’d said, she reached for Adam’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten about the Ponzi scheme that broke your father.”
He briefly squeezed her hand. “The origins of psychopathy are pretty murky.”
Beverly shivered, prompting Adam to say, “We’ve seen what we came to see. I’m not sure I’d call it closure, but it’s enough. Let’s get back on the Harlan trail.”
“You want me to come along?”
“Sure, why not? I want to see that ex-girlfriend of Ryall’s. Having another woman around might break the ice.”
Beverly nodded, enjoying the thawing in the frostiness between her and Adam as they made their way back to the car and drove away. As if to mirror her thoughts, a ray of sunlight cracked through the clouds above and illuminated the road in front of them. An omen? A promise? No, that was too clichéd. Mere coincidence.
She gripped the wheel tighter and stared straight ahead at the shadows in the road ahead. Determined not to cave in to ridiculous fantasies or superstitions, she forced all thoughts of her comatose uncle out of her head.
