“Officer Williams tells me that you made a request for an archives search of missing persons at or around the time of the disappearance of Andrew and Antoinette Bidwell.”
“Your question, Detective Shafer?” I ask.
“I also understand that you and your daughter were at the borough offices when the doors opened this morning to look at the grantor/grantee indexes and building plans and permits for the Devlin mansion.
“That is true.” I will make him work for it, I’ve decided.
“If I didn’t know better, I would say that you are conducting a homicide investigation, Mrs. Strong.”
Emelina and I are sitting in his office. She has volunteered to give her DNA sample to see if DNA from the coal furnace skeleton matches hers. The air inside is almost as frosty as the winds buffeting the windows of his office overlooking the front parking lot. His short black hair and square chin over a muscular build give him a distinct military bearing. I wonder if he served before joining the State Police. I haven’t decided if it is meant to be intimidating. I listen to his even tone and watch his face for any poker tells, then I decide to up the ante.
“I am sure you have your methods, Detective Shafer, but why is it that I was the first to ask for missing persons reports from 1970 and to make a visit to Borough Hall for the Devlin mansion ownership transfers, as well as the first to determine when the conversion from coal to oil took place?” I know something about the timeline, and I am holding off on revealing it to him to see if he will cooperate with us.
“I am not sure that I should be talking with you, Mrs. Strong. Some of the townsfolk have their concerns about your involvement in this matter.”
I am taken aback by that. Sure, I know there are a few noses out of joint over my solving the murders of Jake Dawson and Brian Yelito. Detective Shafer had no clue there was a dognapping until after Billy and I found the prize-winning show dog alive and well.
He continues, “The word came down from my superiors to only supply information on a need-to-know basis.”
Oafish Barney Williams, in his ill-fitting tight winter uniform, sits uncomfortably off to the side and is smart enough to stay on the sidelines in this battle of wits for which he is unarmed.
Before I can speak, Emelina looks at me, places a gentle hand on my knee, and addresses the man about half my age and a third of hers seated before us.
“With all due respect sir, it seems that Mrs. Strong has accelerated your identification of the bodies by showing me the necklace. If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t have known about my nephew and his wife.”
“What makes you think it was your nephew hidden in the furnace?” He is a cool customer and doesn’t take the bait.
“We are not sure, Detective Shafer. That is why I asked for the missing persons reports from that time period. Unless the laws of this state have changed, I have a right under the Freedom of Information Act to obtain any and all missing person records from that time period. Until you test that DNA sample,” I say, pointing to the test kit on his desk, “we won’t know for sure.”
“Certainly, information from the public is always welcome,” he says diplomatically.
“Has she done anything to upset your apple cart?” Emelina asks politely, but there is an edge to her piercing glare at Shafer.
“We welc—” Shafer starts, but Emelina interrupts him.
“Seems like Gwendolyn is supplying you with all the pieces of your puzzle.”
“There’s no deny—”
“And if you show her a few of your pieces, it seems to me that she can fit in some more.”
“We are perfectly capable—”
“Maybe this is a good time for Officer Williams to show an elderly woman to the lady’s room and let you two have a chance to talk off the record.” With that, she stands up. “Officer Williams?”
Barney looks at Shafer, then at Emelina and finally at me. I shrug.
“No problem, Ms. Bidwell. Can I get you a soda while we are out there?” my former student asks. He always had good manners.
Em looks at Shafer. “And some crackers too. My stomach is upset with all this talk of murder.”
The door closes after they leave. I hope Shafer will show his hand. I am holding an ace and I know it.
He starts. “The mayor is getting heat from Truscott Daniels and Mike Meade. He called my troop commander.”
“Daniels, the trust attorney in town?” I ask. He nods. “Mike Meade sits on the Bloodstone Museum board and is the father of my nemesis, Mary Meade, the school superintendent.” Both of them are old enough to swim in the suspect pool.
“Two for two.”
“Why would two of the town’s most prominent persons want me to stand down?”
“I asked myself that same question, Mrs. Strong. If these were recent murders, I would say that they’d be trying to cover for the suspects. My commander told me they said dredging up the past would be bad for the town. People would not want to come here to work or live here if it had a bad reputation.”
“He didn’t ask you to stand down, I hope.”
“No, but the message was clear. I have to tread lightly.”
“Nobody was supposed to break down the divider in the Delvin basement.” I think of my poor husband, who should probably see a therapist after what he has been through.
“Nobody was supposed to know about where Andrew and Antoinette ended up,” Shafer hypothesizes. “They just got fed up with living in this Podunk town and were never heard from again.”
“Podunk town?” I ask without being offended.
“One guy is known for handling the big trusts in town, and the other guy sits on a museum board. Excuse my French, Mrs. Strong, but they don’t give a rat’s patootie about the future. They are all about preserving the past and the wishes of Milford’s wealthiest patrons.”
Until now, I hadn’t considered my young colleague in crime detection to be a big-picture thinker, and he instantly earns more respect. I know he has to navigate tricky currents and I don’t. I know that getting a fifty-year-old murder dumped on his desk is not his idea of a fun time. Now he has two, and with that, his investigation is going to be put under the microscope. On top of that, I am a wildcard that he must deal with.
“Mark, I know which came first.”
He is startled by my use of his first name. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, that chicken or the egg thing. I know which came first.” I lay down my ace. “T.J. Mardell was the owner of the Devlin Mansion when this all took place.”
I show him a copy of the photocopy from the land records book showing the property transfer. “He converted the heating system to oil in the spring of 1970, then the building inspector signed off on the permit on May 12, 1970. It was a Tuesday.” I lay that sheet of paper down next.
“Okay,” he says.
“What date was the last day of any of the newspapers in the steamer trunk?”
I see the lightbulb go on. “June something.”
“June 23rd.” I show him a picture on my phone.
He starts to connect the dots. “The coal furnace could have been disconnected during the warmer weather of the spring but was probably not functioning when the oil heater took over. The body could have been dumped in the furnace before May 12th.”
“Andrew disappeared on March 31st,” I say.
“And somebody fills the steamer trunk with drapes and newspapers in June or later,” he adds.
He’s quick. He continues, “Even though the body in the furnace was discovered after the body in the steamer trunk, the furnace was filled first and then the steamer trunk went into the basement next.” He stops to digest that. “When was the wall built separating the basement?”
“Ken tells me that it was cosmetic. It had no structural purpose. I don’t know yet.”
I bring out another piece of paper. “Here is Mardell’s obituary.” I lay that on top of the other gifts I am giving to Shafer.
“Damn,” he says.
“Here are the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of his surviving children.” I let him absorb that for a couple of beats. “Did you ever play in the basement or attic of your parent’s house?” I ask.
He looks at me with a furrowed brow. “Why are you giving me these leads? Why don’t you want to work them yourself?”
“They are all out of towners. They might remember Emelina, but I didn’t come into town until 1985. Who would be better to call them up? The detective investigating two bodies found in their family home, or a former kindergarten teacher nosing around? Who is going to get a better version of the truth?”
Emelina returns to the office. Before Barney’s bulk shadows the doorframe, Shafer slides the paper I gave him into his file.
Shafer stands and comes around from behind his desk. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Bidwell. We will be in touch.” He extends a hand to me, and I shake it. “Once again, Mrs. Strong, it is a pleasure seeing you.”
The rules of engagement are established. I have to give a little to get a little. He has done me a favor and warned me to watch my back.
“We can see ourselves out.” Emelina says.
My mentor and I walk through the maze of halls to the front doors and out to my car. We are going to Erin’s house again and will meet Abe there. There is a lot of work still to do.
“Did Detective Shafer warm up at all?” she asks me.
I give a distracted nod to her question. “Yes. He told me who’s been raising concerns about me—Truscott Daniels and Mike Meade. They are old enough to be the killers, but what motive would they have? By coming forward, they attract attention to themselves. I have to suppose they are trying to keep reputations unsullied. I am the wildcard they can’t control, but they can try to control the flow of information between Shafer and myself.” The tightness in my chest is warning me, but I am not sure why.
“You know what that tells you, Gwendolyn.”
“What?”
“Some important people are afraid you might figure this out.”
I nod as my mind whirls a mile a minute. Politicians and the town’s movers and shakers want me to stand down. This is not like arguing with a school principal about some idiotic policy. These people play hardball.
She smiles and looks over to me. “You go, girl.”
I return my best fake smile.