28
Tammy Morelli sat opposite Chief Carlson, her fingers massaging her temples. “Well, sure, Roger had enemies,” she said. “Lots of people wanted him dead.” She closed her eyes. “Including me, sometimes.”
She opened her eyes again. They were bloodshot from crying. Richard didn’t understand how a woman like Tammy, basically a good, decent, hardworking person, could actually grieve over a lazy bum who had beaten her and used her. But Tammy had sobbed like a baby when Richard had given her the news that Roger was dead.
Murdered.
“Anyone hate him enough to cut off his arm?” Adam Burrell asked her.
Tammy shuddered. “I have no idea,” she said, massaging her temples harder.
Richard felt sorry for her. “I don’t want to keep you any longer, Tammy. But if you can think of anything, like maybe the symbolism of his right arm . . . like maybe he did something to someone and they were cutting off his arm for revenge. . . .”
Her eyes snapped open and she was looking directly at Richard.
“But Roger was left-handed,” she said. “If he did anything to someone, he’d have done it with his left arm.”
The chief nodded.
After Tammy was gone, Richard and Adam sat in silence for a while. Outside the snow squall was ending. It had been a light winter so far, but that could change. It was still early. They could yet be buried in seven feet like they’d been last year.
“Tell me something, Adam,” Richard said. “You grew up here. The cold case files tell me that there were a number of unsolved murders in this town before I took over as chief.”
The deputy was nodding. “They stretch way back, more than a century.”
“The last big flare-up was a little more than twenty years ago,” Richard told him, remembering the files he’d perused. “So you must remember that.”
“Sure do,” Adam said. “I was around seven years old at the time. My parents were terrified. Kept me in the house, wouldn’t let me go outside to play. There was even stuff on the news about the Woodfield Serial Killer.”
“I seem to recall from the files that four people were killed in a matter of a few days.”
“Well, four people went missing, never to be seen again. But only one body was found. The police chief at the time presumed there was a link.”
“And why was that?”
“Because they’d all either been living or working at the Blue Boy,” Adam told him.
The chief stood, walking over to the shelf and retrieving several folders. Placing them down on the table, he thumbed through the top file.
“Yes, here it is,” he said. “A man and his wife had been staying at the inn. He reported she went for a walk and never returned. No body was ever found. But murder was suspected given the fact that the very next day Cynthia Devlin, the owners’ granddaughter, also went missing. Although again no body was found, the little girl’s blood was discovered all over the grounds. There was speculation a bear might have killed her.”
“It wasn’t a bear,” Adam said. “Because there were two other guys as well.”
Richard flipped forward a few pages in the file. “Yes, here they are. Contractors. They’d come up from New York to do some work on the place.” He read further. “One would be reported missing by his wife. He never returned to New York. The other was found in the woods outside the Blue Boy, a bullet through his heart.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Richard couldn’t figure it out. “There doesn’t seem to be a pattern, except that they were all connected somehow to the Blue Boy Inn.”
Adam shuddered. “My parents always told me to stay away from that place, that it was haunted,” he said.
The chief was still reading through the file. “It says here that the owners were all questioned and were cleared of any suspicion.” He read a little further into the report. “Cordelia had just taken over the place, her husband having recently died. Her son was questioned, it says here, but having lost his daughter, the poor guy was pretty shaken up, and he moved away soon after that.”
“Hey, chief,” Adam asked, leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, “are you thinking that Roger Askew’s death might be somehow connected to those deaths twenty years ago?”
“I can’t see how it’s possible,” Richard said, closing the file. “Roger was killed half a mile away from the inn. But I’d like to look into those cold cases regardless. The file left it all a complete mystery, saying no suspects or motives could be found, especially since only one body was ever found.”
Adam smirked. “It’ll give us something to do. It’s been pretty boring around here lately.”
“Don’t let anyone know we’re reopening those cases,” Richard told him. “Officially, we’re only investigating the death of Roger Askew. I have a feeling that one will be easy to solve as soon as we start talking to Roger’s cohorts. But as you’re talking to people, ask what they remember about the Blue Boy twenty years ago.”
“Will do, chief,” Adam said, bolting out of his chair, replacing his cap, and heading out the door.
Richard sat back down at his desk. He thought of that woman who’d just moved to the Blue Boy, the one he’d met at Millie’s store. Such a pretty woman. Annabel, she’d said her name was. Richard hoped he wouldn’t rattle her too much asking questions about the Blue Boy’s bloody past.