Rocky laughed softly. “The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast. Where else?”
* * *
Fall River was similar to many a New England town, a little bit sleepy now, riddled with church steeples and Victorian architecture, charming, of course, and, in areas, like most cities, a little worn out by history and poverty. Vickie knew that in the days when the Plymouth Colony had found birth upon the New World shore, the area had been inhabited by the Pokanoket Wampanoag tribe of Native Americans, with their actual center across from what was now Bristol County, Massachusetts, in the Mount Hope area of Bristol, Rhode Island. The name Fall River came from the tribal language—Quequechan—meaning, of course, “falling river.”
Textile manufacturing was long gone. Tourism definitely helped. Beside the Lizzie Borden house, the Fall River Historical Society and Oak Grove Cemetery, there was Battleship Cove, a museum that offered the largest collection of naval vessels in the country. There was also an art center, marine museum and numerous other attractions. It helped, too, that Fall River wasn’t terribly far from the fantastic mansions in Newport, Rhode Island, and for those who followed the H. P. Lovecraft trail, it was a close hop, skip and jump, as well.
Their foursome met with the detectives first. The men had already befriended one another on their quest to find Helena Matthews. Cole Magruder had suggested a restaurant on Pleasant Street that excelled in Portuguese food, a large part of the Fall River population being of Portuguese descent.
Everyone shook hands all way around, before finding chairs at a circular table in the far back corner of the restaurant. It was still early and the restaurant wasn’t officially opened, but Magruder’s wife was the owner’s niece, and so it was open for them.
“From what we discussed on the phone,” Magruder—a solid man in his late thirties, Vickie thought—said, “you believe that Helena Matthews is dead. Is it at all possible that she’s still alive and being held somewhere?”
Griffin chose his words carefully. “We’d like to believe that she is alive. But according to our best medical and forensic people, the amount of blood that was thrown on Vickie indicates that Miss Matthews had to have lost a tremendous amount. So much so—”
“That she couldn’t possibly be alive,” Detective Robert Merton finished. He was older than Magruder, grizzled, wrinkled and weary looking, as if he’d seen the bad in humanity far too long. He glanced over at Merton. “We’ve been afraid that she’s dead since she went missing,” he added. “She wasn’t the type to just disappear. She was a financial analyst for a large computer company in Bristol, Rhode Island. Beloved by her coworkers. She was originally from the Boston area, I believe, but she lost her parents when she was in grade school and grew up with an aunt, now deceased, as well.”
“Did you know her?” Vickie asked him.
He shook his head. “I just feel that I knew her, I guess. I spent so much time finding out about her, trying to trace her footsteps. She had a boyfriend, but he wasn’t all that much help because they’d only been seeing each other a few months when she disappeared.”
“And you looked into him first, I imagine,” Rocky said.
Merton nodded. “He had an ironclad alibi for the entire time from the evening she left work to the morning when she didn’t show up.”
“What was that?” Griffin asked.
“He’s military. He was offshore on a training mission. His officers—and a hundred other US Navy men—were ready to swear to his whereabouts.”
“Definitely sounds ironclad to me,” Devin said.
“She must have been very nice, the way you speak about her,” Vickie noted.
“So we think. I tried everything from my end,” Merton said, “and I started working with Detective Magruder here when we traced her last credit card charge to a gas station right over the state border on the edge of Fall River.”
“I spoke with all the friends she was to have met,” Magruder said. “She wasn’t a saint, but she leaned toward the angelic. She didn’t just give to a number of causes, she worked them. Volunteered a day each weekend at her animal shelter.”
“Coordinated fundraisers with her church, working to alleviate disasters anywhere in the world,” Merton told them.
“So what do we know for sure about the day she disappeared? She was on her way here to dinner. She was seen leaving work, and she made it this far, we know, because she bought gas. But her credit cards haven’t been used since. And there’s been no sign of her whatsoever?” Griffin asked.
“You have the files,” Merton told them, shaking his head. “You know what we know. We tried all the hospitals. The morgues. Every hotel and bed-and-breakfast, inn and hostel anywhere in the region. We’ve had our volunteer search teams through the woods. She just disappeared. We haven’t found her car—it’s probably in a lake somewhere.” He leaned toward Griffin. “Obviously, though, she’s somewhere.”
“She didn’t have any reason to want to leave her current life?” Griffin asked. “That you could discover, of course. It sounds as if she liked her job and her church and her life.”
The two detectives looked at one another and shook their heads.
“I’ve been at this nearly forty years—I’m about to retire,” Merton said. “Unless every single instinct I have is on the total blink, she was a happy and well-adjusted young woman. I realize that you have a connection—through her blood being thrown at Miss Preston—that there’s a cult angle you’re following. But I think I could swear that Helena Matthews was as far from being a cultist as one could get. She was a member of a very open, welcoming and laid-back Congregational church. She was into giving and working. She was also fun, so her friends assured me. She was excited about her new navy guy. No trouble in her past—a sterling record in school. Valued and recognized at her workplace. I just don’t see it. She didn’t run off—she was taken.”
They talked awhile longer. The gas station attendants had told the police that they might or might not have really seen Helena Matthews; she had apparently used her card in one of the station’s pumps. She might have been a pretty blonde who was chatting with an older man as she gassed up her car, but they couldn’t be sure; it had been a busy day.
Both Merton and Magruder came across as extremely sincere and hardworking cops. It was good to meet with them.
While they talked, they also indulged in a great deal of delicious Portuguese food.
At last, they had discovered all that they could from the detectives.
“I hoped we’ve helped some. As I’m sure you surmised, we’re both going to assist you in any way that we can,” Magruder said.
“Thing is, of course, we caught a missing-person case,” Merton said.
“And we’ve been hoping and praying that she was found alive—somehow,” Magruder said.
“It’s not impossible,” Rocky told them. “Just not...not likely, unfortunately,” he finished.
“I know you guys are good cops—and it’s evident you care about this case, too. But I’d like to try that gas station and speak with the attendants. We might just get something,” Griffin said.
“I’d send these lady agents, if I were you,” Magruder suggested.
Griffin didn’t tell him that Vickie wasn’t an agent. He just asked, “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re looking at a pair of macho misfits, my friend. Chauvinists—but the kind who will respond to attractive women with far more enthusiasm than they will to a man,” Merton said. “And hey! Trust me, please—my wife has made sure I don’t have a chauvinistic bone in my body,” he added dryly. “Thing is, I use whatever resources I’ve got when I’m looking for answers. And if that means exploiting other people’s prejudices, I go with it.”
“Not a problem,” Devin Lyle said, smiling with only slightly suppressed amusement. “Vickie and I have no problem meeting Massachusetts r
ednecks at the gas station. We were all supposed to meet the retired detective where, Griffin? Maybe we can drop you off.”
“Going to his home actually,” Griffin said.
“Who you meeting up with?” Merton asked, easing back in his chair.
“A guy named Charlie Oakley,” Griffin told him.
Merton smiled. “I know Charlie. Good cop. Well, he had been. He left the force soon after he caught the Sheena Petrie case. I guess he couldn’t shake the fact that he was willing to pursue her murder—and everyone else wanted to believe that the cult kids were responsible for her death, as well. I’ll take you by his place.”
“You worked with him before?”
“I had just gotten my detective’s badge late in the seventies,” Merton said. “With everything going on back then there were task forces up the wazoo. There were things that were solved, and things that weren’t solved. And the ones you never solve are the ones that haunt you.” He stood up. “Ladies...sorry, agents—I don’t mean to offend. You head off. I’ll see to it that these fellows get to Charlie’s place. You can pick them up there later. Oh—the brothers are Bruce and Bryan Milner. Bryan has more teeth left. They’re harmless in the end, but...well, hell. You’ll figure it out.”
“Actually, Devin is an agent, but I’m not,” Vickie said, rising with the others at the table. “Feel free to call me a lady. And I don’t think that Devin is all that hung up on titles,” Vickie said, grinning at the man.
“Just don’t call me ‘sweetie’ unless you’re one of our friends’ great-aunts from down in the Deep South. Anyway, we’re out of here! Thank you both so much for your help. We’ll see you gentlemen later,” Devin promised.
Rocky handed her the keys.
Smiling and feeling hopeful, Vickie and Devin headed out.
* * *
Charlie Oakley was waiting for his visitors, standing down by his mailbox.
He lived in an old Victorian farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. He grinned with surprise, seeing that Robert Merton had brought them, shook hands with both Griffin and Rocky and asked them on in—offering them something to eat.
“Just ate, thanks. Excellent food,” Griffin said.
“Coffee?” Charlie Oakley asked anxiously. “Robert, you can stay a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Merton said.
“So, coffee?” Oakley pressed again.
“Hey, there’s never too much coffee,” Rocky said.
Oakley apparently wanted them to feel comfortable and at home. Maybe he wanted to feel comfortable himself.
He made their drinks. They sat around a big kitchen table with steaming mugs, but once they were seated, Oakley looked over at Detective Robert Merton as if he were gaining assurance that his words mattered. He had a headful of thick white hair and was a tall man, straight and dignified even when sitting. His awkward smile was endearing. When he started in, he was sincere, and his words were compelling.
“Everyone thought I was crazy. No, wait—I don’t believe that. They wanted me to be crazy. They couldn’t prove a lot—I mean, that’s always part of it, right? There’s what you know, and then there’s what you can prove. But here’s the thing. It was horrible. I mean, first, so damned sad. Beautiful teenagers, coming from all over. How the whole prostitution thing got going is just damned sad. But what it turned into, those killings...” He paused. “I saw the bodies, you see.”
“Bad—I can only imagine,” Griffin said.
Charlie Oakley nodded. “I guess I’m still waiting for this to be proved—somehow, some way! Thing is, you see, they knew the girls working the streets. Marsden had come to the police before she was killed. Foolish girl, what was done to her... Robin Murphy described the way Drew held her head back, severed her throat...decapitated her. It was so ugly. Only her skull was ever found. No teeth in it. Bad.
“So, you see, here’s the thing. Sheena Petrie wasn’t a prostitute. She was running away from a bad marriage. The guy liked to use her for a punching bag. He’s long dead now, an alcoholic who died in the streets. So, she’s here, and she takes up work as a chef in a restaurant. Her coworkers said that she was all happy, seeing some kind of a mystery man, a guy who was a real gentleman. Only, none of them ever saw the guy. Now, to me, she’s found dead in the river so don’t you think the guy would have come forward? Nope. Never heard of him, and while the cult members denied anything to do with the murder of Sheena Petrie, there she was, dead in the river. And there, in the dirt, was written those words. ‘Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!’ Yeah, I’ve memorized the saying. It’s been stuck in my head forever. Did all kinds of research—learned about Ezekiel Martin and his sick cult. Thing is, I just don’t believe that Sheena died because of the cult. And where she was found, those words were left for her. Oh, and the teenagers and young adults involved in the cult murders? In my mind, nowhere near sophisticated enough to pull off the absolute disappearance of Sheena Petrie, or the writing in the ground. I believe, in my heart, that there is someone nice and sophisticated out there who did kill her. And, Agents, I don’t think it would be so farfetched to think that person was just learning back then, and may still be out there—somewhere. Why not? ‘Satan is coming!’”
* * *
Bryan Milner was the one who still had most of his teeth left!
So here he was, Vickie thought, watching the man who first came out of the station, wiping his fingers with an oil rag, when they parked and started to exit the car.
“Afternoon, ladies!” he greeted them. “What can I do for you? I am delighted to serve in any capacity whatsoever. Our gas is self-serve, but of course we’re here. Oil change, engine trouble. Why, I promise you, I can oil anything at all into fine, purrrrr-ing condition!”
Vickie glanced at Devin. Since Bryan seemed to be staring at Vickie, Devin made a quick gagging motion with her fingers and mouth. Vickie tried not to smirk.
“Hello, and thank you,” she said sweetly. “Actually, at the moment, everything is running just fine. But we could use your help.”
“We’re looking for a friend,” Devin added. “And we would love help with that!”
The man gave them a shiny smile. “Sure!” he said helpfully.
“I know that the police already came by,” Devin said. “Our friend’s name is Helena Matthews. She’s a very pretty woman, a tall slim blonde. She was here the day that she disappeared.”
“That’s what the cops said. Thing is, we were pretty damned busy that day.”
“But surely you would have been out here to help such a lady—if you had seen her.”
“Like I told the cops, I might have seen her. But she seemed to be with a man,” he said.
“Did you know him?” Vickie asked.
Bryan Milner shook his head.
“No, Bruce and I were both in the station—bunch of people buying candy and drinks and what-not. And, you know, you gotta keep your eyes open in a place like this. People stealing right and left! But...”
“But?” Vickie pressed gently.
“But,” he admitted, “we both noticed her.” He hesitated again. He cleared his throat. “I hope you find your friend. To be honest, Bruce and me were kind of doing our business-argue over who should go out, and then we saw the man. Figured she was with someone. We weren’t going to be able to get a few good words in or nothing. So we didn’t go out.”
“What about the man?” Devin asked.
“Never seen him before,” Bryan Milner said.
“So, he wasn’t from around here? I’m thinking you’re pretty good at knowing who is and who isn’t from around here, right?”
“Hey, this isn’t a Podunk town!” he said indignantly. “What are you, from Boston? Think that’s the only city in
Massachusetts?”
Devin glanced at Vickie, amused. “Not me. I’m from Salem.”
“One of those witches, huh?”
“Well, you just never do know, do you?” Devin said teasingly. “So, please, we do really appreciate everything that you’re telling us. Can you describe the man for us? Was he young or old? How was he dressed?”
Milner shrugged. “Not too tall, not too big. Not short, neither.”
“So about five-ten or so?” Vickie asked.
“Yeah, maybe, maybe a little taller.”
“Young or old?” Devin asked.
“Like medium,” Bryan said.
“Medium?” Vickie repeated, glancing at Devin. “Is that like middle-aged?”
“Fifty, maybe. Or late forties. Or sixty. That’s medium!” Milner said.
“T-shirt, jeans, suit?”
Bryan thought about that a few minutes. “Think it was a suit or a jacket of some kind. I don’t really remember.”
“And you don’t know if they were together or not? If they drove up together—or if they met at the pumps?” Vickie asked.
“No idea. No idea at all,” Bryan said. “Hey, I told you. People steal things. You have to keep an eagle eye on folks in the store. Now, I appreciate a beauty, but I also appreciate making my living here, you know? It’s Bruce and me. We’re the workforce.”
“That’s understandable,” Devin said. “But let me ask you just one more question.”
Bryan suddenly pointed at her. “You’re the law. You’re some kind of cop.”
“I’m really not a cop,” Devin said, offering him a sweet smile. “Please, we understand. You were busy. You don’t know if they came together or met at the pump. Did they leave together?”
Again he was thoughtful—puzzled, as if he was trying to pull up the images in his memory.
“I don’t think so,” he said at last.
They both thanked him and headed back for the car.
“Hey!” he called after them.