“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Benjamin begins his speech. “On behalf of the Milford Chamber of Commerce, I welcome you to the Annual Membership Drive.” He looks dapper in his blue suit, starched white shirt, and magenta tie. There is a sparkle in his eyes, and his energy is contagious.
He strategically waited until after the endless platters of hors d’oeuvres and an hour of open bar to make his pitch. The businesspeople of our fair town have been fed and are nicely lubricated. It’s our signal to bring out the cookies and fill the towers. Emelina and I strike a balance. She dresses nicely, while I am the worker bee. I scurry between the three serving tables next to the drink stations, making sure every table has an equal measure of our tasty creations, while she follows behind me and lifts off the cling wrap and tidies each arrangement.
Benjamin continues, “As our economy continues to evolve, I am happy see so many new faces. If this is your first visit to a Chamber event, please raise your hand.” I see Erin and Darren raise their hands, along with a couple dozen other folks. My daughter and son-in-law are with Ken, who bought a new suit for the occasion. “Let’s show these folks a round of applause and a hearty welcome.” He pauses for the desired effect. “Milford was first known for logging, and after the river was tamed, industry grew up along its banks using hydro-electric power for the mills and for building barges to send our goods downstream. The railroads came next with reliable freight transportation and with it, summer tourism.”
Here in the Bloodstone mansion, which now houses a museum of Commerce and Industry, the examples are all around me. A weaving mill that was used to make Union Civil War uniforms sits in the center of the main hall. Along the walls are exhibits and photo displays of progress over the years. The displays stop in the 1950s.
He continues, “One thing is certain, and that is change. Did we try to hold on the past?” He looks about the room, and his eyes settle on the life-size portrait of his father, Burgess. The unsmiling face and stern countenance say it all about trying to hold onto the good ol’ days.
“Sadly, yes, but from this experience, we had to learn to be nimble. Farming today is organic. City folks cannot get enough of our produce. We raise the best beef, pork, and poultry without all the nasty stuff. Our grand hotels have little vacancies now as year-round bed and breakfasts. Many restored Victorian mansions are Airbnb’s. Can I have a show of hands of business owners of health and wellness studios?” A dozen hands go up in the air. “Please keep your hands in the air. As I call your type of business, raise your hand, and keep it up.”
“But even with this rebirth, we cannot do it without our tradespeople, craftsmen, construction and heavy equipment operators. Also, our financial service sector of insurance, accounting, banking, and legal services.” I watch as a coven of lawyers and bankers raise their hands. “You can buy a car and have it serviced here in Milford. Downtown has a near one hundred percent occupancy rate with artisanal retail.” More hands go up. “We even have a yoga studio.” Abe raises his hand sheepishly. “And a brand-new bakery. Your dessert tonight is supplied by our one and only Emelina Bidwell.” I have never seen her turn red before—he caught her completely unawares.
“Before you put your hands down, only lower them if you haven’t used a Chamber discount in the last couple of years.” Only a few hands drop. “Look around.” He pauses. “Besides discounts, we have four leads groups, in-house training seminars on business start-ups, and lobbyists working at the state capital to promote our state and our town as a place to relocate a business.”
He’s winding down now. “Okay, you can put your hands down now, but before you reach for one of Emelina’s prized cookies, find a hand of a new person tonight and shake it. Introduce yourself and ask them what they do. Let them know how valuable your membership is to your business. Enjoy the evening, everyone.”
It’s one the of best speeches I’ve ever heard. Short, sweet, and to the point. Some of the preachers in town could learn from him. I am happy for Benjamin, and I am happy for Emelina and our new venture. It feels real to me tonight as I see people I’ve known all my adult life mingling with new folks in town.
“Excuse me, miss. May I have a napkin?” I turn to see Truscott Daniels. “Oh, I didn’t recognize you, Mrs. Strong, I thought you were one of the servers.”
He might as well have called me a servant. I am still processing his insult when from over my shoulder I hear, “Here you go, Daniels, it’s a shame you spilled your drink on your tie.”
Ken’s strong hand pushes a handful of napkins towards Daniels’ drink hand, causing it to do just that.
“You—” Truscott’s anger flashes for a second. “Be careful.”
“You be careful too, counselor.” My man gives him a tight thin-lipped smile.
Daniels turns away and slinks to the corner where his ilk have camped out. Erin, Darren, and Abe join Ken and me. We have enough for a rugby scrum. Milford’s power elite versus Milford’s truth seekers. This one could leave scars.
The mumbling and harrumphing fade as Truscott and the others scatter around the hall.
I know someone who is going to get help with taking his clothes off tonight. My man gives my middle back a gentle pat. He always has my back. I take a deep breath and refocus on making sure the displays are well stocked. Then I walk back to the kitchen and see Emelina and Benjamin. They are in a tender embrace. I cough.
He lifts his head, and she turns around and says, “I was just filling him in with the news about Johnny Murphy.”
“So, your investigation is over,” Ben says. “That was some amazing work.”
“Yes, we are going to turn everything over to the authorities tomorrow,” I say.
I grab the next platter and whoosh out the door. You would think this group was a pack of ravenous wolves. The serving tables are nearly empty. The compliments I am receiving only validate what I already know. This get-together is the launch party for Emelina’s cookies, and she has achieved lift-off. No sooner do I empty that tray when I spot another totally barren tower. I rush back to the kitchen to grab the next platter and hear Emelina sobbing. I walk over to her and put my arms around her. She says, “This is supposed to be a happy occasion, and here I am falling apart.”
“I’m sure that talking to Benjamin allowed you to finally grieve your niece and your nephew. Grief can come when you least expect it.” I put my arms around her and give her a hug. I think of all the times that she has hugged me over the years. Those times when I wanted to commit a felony against the school principal or administrator, or squabbles with Ken over whether to medicate Erin when her teachers were demanding it, Em was always there for me. Maybe I am not the greatest at verbalizing my feelings, but she always seemed to know when I needed a hug. Now, it’s my turn. “Your cookies are a big hit. They can’t get enough,” I say.
“Maybe we should bring out the goody boxes after that last platter,” she says. “Let’s send them home happy.”
I had suggested that we put a label on her boxes with a website and her telephone number and she agreed to just her telephone number for now. Each to-go box has a nice hand-printed label with her name and telephone number.
Mayor Scudder approaches me. “Good evening, Mrs. Strong. How are you?”
“I am well, Mr. Mayor.”
“These cookies are fantastic. I am glad that Emelina decided to do this. I am sure you had a hand in all this.”
“Matter of fact, we are partners.”
He seems surprised by that statement. “Anyway, this is a nice way to put all that unpleasant business behind you.”
The grapevine has fiber optic speed in this town. “Yes sir, two unsolved homicides from fifty years ago in town would definitely be unpleasant.” I hold the politician’s stare longer.
“Congratulation on a wonderful new business venture. I know who to call for our business functions.”
He’s slick. He’s slicker than snail stuff, but I return his fake smile before he steps away.
Erin comes back to the kitchen. She’s little tipsy. We Strongs are not big drinkers, but it’s a rare night out for her, and Darren’s her designated driver. She looks great in a slinky black dress that accentuates her curves. I know where she got those from. “Do you need help with anything, Mommy?” she asks.
“I know a couple guys’ drinks you could spike,” I say.
She looks under the sink at the cleaning products. “Death or just diarrhea?” I am not sure if she’s joking.
“No, your dad put one of them in his place.”
“Well, after what Daniels did to Daddy, I think he owed him one.”
“Tru dat,” I say, borrowing a phrase that our favorite FBI agent, Marsha O’Shea, said during the New Haven case.
“What was Emelina upset about?” Erin doesn’t miss a trick.
“She told Mr. Bloodstone about Johnny Murphy, and I guess it all came crashing down on her tonight,” I say. “She told him that our investigation is finito.”
“I guess that’s it,” she says. “It was fun while it lasted.”
“Are you coming with me tomorrow afternoon to see Detective Shafer?” I ask.
She nods. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. We get to show a homicide investigator how it’s done,” she says, giggling.
“Will you have everything ready?” I ask.
She nods. “You can give him the dossiers and I will put everything else on a thumb drive. I can’t give him access to CaseSoft, as it’s not ours to share in the first place.”
My turn to nod. “Makes sense. Do you want to help me with the goody boxes?”
“They are so cute, but how come you didn’t create a social media page or a website?”
“Emelina nixed that idea, so we just went with her phone number.”
“That’s so old school, Mom,” she says as we load the boxes onto a serving cart.
“She’s a hundred years old, Erin.”
“Yeah, but look how she picked up on how we worked the case. She could kill it on TikTok.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Really, Erin?”
“Really, Mom. People would pay good money all over the world to try her chocolate chip cookies.”
I can’t argue with her. Guests are coming to us, and we can’t hand them out fast enough. I have to tell people politely that they only get one box. I save two for Ken. He can have Daniels’ take home.
The bar has been closed for a while and people are making their way to the exits. I huddle with Emelina one more time. Abe has offered to give her a ride home. He says, “Your cookies are a success.”
“Our cookies are a success,” she says, then she gives me a hug. “Thank you for everything, Gwendolyn. I truly mean that.”
I know she’s talking about the case and not Chinese chews or magic cookie bars.
My chariot driver appears, and we stroll outside to his truck. Except for Truscott Daniels putting me down, it was a wonderful evening. It’s cloudy tonight, but not frigid.
Spring is coming. I can feel it. I am ready to say sayonara to Old Man Winter. The parking lot is deserted except for us and an SUV tucked in the darkened corner of the parking lot facing outwards.
We depart and are chatting about Ken’s favorite cookies. He can’t decide between his old favorite and some of the ones we baked today.
We are halfway home and turning off the main drag when the inside of our cab is lit up by blue and red flashing strobes. The police vehicle and our car are the only ones on the road. Ken slows down to allow it to pass. We figure the officer is heading to an emergency. Instead, it tucks in behind us and throws its searchlight on our sideview mirror. We are being stopped.
“Did you have much to drink tonight?” I ask.
“No more than anybody else,” he replies.
The laws are so strict these days, you can look at a bottle of beer and get pinched for a DUI.
We are blinded by the lights reflecting back in our eyes from the mirrors A shadow cuts the light, and the police officer approaches the driver side window. Ken eases it down. An oversized flashlight sweeps the interior of our passenger compartment.
“May I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance?”
It’s Barney Williams.
“Barney, this is my husband, Ken.” I say.
He says nothing in response. What’s going on?
Ken leans across me and retrieves the registration and insurance card from the glove box. He also produces his driver’s license and hands everything over.
“Thank you, sir. I will be right back.”
The search light stayed focused on the rearview mirror. The blue and red lights continue to strum a strobe effect over the empty street and houses on both sides of this neighborhood street.
“Daniels got to Scudder and Scudder got to Barney.” I shake my head. Next, I expect him to ask Ken to take a field sobriety test, then watch him go in handcuffs to the State Police Barracks for a breathalyzer. He may be over the limit and could go to jail. I am starting to think the car I saw in the parking lot was Barney’s police vehicle. This is a trap. I am getting more perturbed by the minute.
I can’t believe this. I have the Stillman brothers’ attorney on speed dial. I am tempted to call now while we sit here helpless to leave.
Eventually Barney ambles up to the window and hands Ken’s papers back to him. “Thank you, Mr. Strong. Have a nice evening.”
“What the—” I say. Is he doing this just to harass us?
He walks back to his ride, turns off the overhead lights and searchlight, then drives away swiftly.
Ken takes his license and puts in back in his wallet. I take the papers and am ready to put them back when I notice a third piece of paper. I put the insurance ID card and his registration back in the glove box and stare at the remaining piece. I unfold it and get it oriented so I can read it.
“What’s that?” Ken asks. His adrenaline is bleeding off.
“I think that was all a ruse. Barney wanted to give me this while making it look like a routine traffic stop. It’s a photocopy of the Milford Jailer’s intake card. It shows Johnny Murphy spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day 1969 in the pokey for drunk and disorderly until Mrs. Murphy bailed him out.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Andrew said Antoinette went missing after dinner and before Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Murphy couldn’t have grabbed her then.”