Love Lies Bleeding (3 page)

The morning light, glinting in the window, revealed just how threadbare Frank’s sheets and pillowcases had become. It was a blue and yellow flowered set that had gotten divvied up during the divorce. Frank thought it had been a wedding present, but couldn’t be sure.

Shelly lay next to him, her eyes closed, rimmed with smudged eyeliner. Her spiky new wave hairdo formed little peaks and valleys all over her head. A milky thigh emerged from under the covers. Her clothes and boots sat in a wrinkled pile next to the bed.

Frank had a massive headache—the kind that reached out with deft pincers from the middle of his skull, grabbed his eyeballs, and squeezed. Clutching his forehead, he reached for the aspirin on the nightstand and padded naked to the bathroom, where he poured a tumbler full of water. He swallowed three and washed them down, glancing at his face staring back at him from the medicine cabinet mirror. He did look like shit. And for once, he was tired of it—looking awful, feeling worse. He just wanted to stop feeling out of control.

Despite coasting along in neutral for the last few years, not really knowing or caring about much, he realized this case demanded more of him. More everything—thought, effort, and fortitude. He wasn’t sure he was capable of it. But he did know that he needed to make some changes, starting now.

“No time like the present,” he muttered.

He couldn’t remember ever being so dehydrated, so he gulped down two more glasses of water and went to check on Shelly.

She was awake now, hugging the sheets to herself, trying to tempt him with a little come-hither smile. For once, he just wasn’t interested.

“I need to get to work, so can I give you a ride home here in a bit?”

She frowned a little, and he could tell she was hurt, as morning quickies had become somewhat of a favorite tradition after their late nights together.

“Big case?”

“The biggest.”

With that, he headed to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed the almost full bottle of Jim Beam and unscrewed the cap. Then he poured the entire contents down the drain.

Chapter Three

“
S
ee you later, Frank?” Shelly looked over at him. He could tell she was expecting to get together soon.

They sat in the Crown Vic in front of her place, a rundown little studio in College Town.

He cleared his throat, trying to stall for a moment, then decided the time had come.

“Shelly, remember what we said when we first hooked up? No strings, no commitments? You were still sort of dating that guy—what the heck was his name? Pete?”

“Yeah.” She hung her head, as if she knew what was coming. “So this is it? We’re done?”

He sighed. “I really hate being a stereotype here, but it’s honestly not you. It’s me. I know no matter what I say right now, I’ll look like a giant douchebag. I need to have my head clear for this case I’m working on. I just don’t want you to hate me.”

She let out a bitter laugh.

“Nah. I’m a big girl, Frank. Like we said, no strings, no commitments, right?”

He looked over at her and gently took her hand. “I appreciate you being there last night. I really do. If you were a few years older, or I was a few years younger, we’d be the perfect couple, you know.”

“Are you kidding? You don’t even like punk. It’d never work. Besides, I’ve had my eye on this guy at the bar for a while. Maybe it’s time to give him my number.” She looked up at him through eyes pooled with tears, then quickly leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek before scrambling out of the car.

“Bye, Shelly.” He put the Crown Vic in gear and sat there for a moment.

“Bye, Frank.” She closed the car door, then stood there staring after the car as he headed off down the street toward the medical examiner’s office.

Years ago, someone noted Leland Savage’s name and profession and laughed, so his friends began calling him Doc Savage after the pulp fiction character. It had since been shortened to “Doc.” Doc had been in charge of the morgue for ten years and kept a tight ship. Frank had never seen a man so devoted to his job. He was meticulous and knew his stuff, courtesy of his Cornell medical degree. But rather than being intimidating, Doc was the most laidback guy Frank knew. His eccentricity could have gotten him mistaken for a roadie in the Stones’ entourage.

Doc’s inner sanctum was dark and cavernous, with a bright lamp shining a luminous sphere over his work area. Before Frank entered, he had to steel himself for the smell. Most cops learned to carry a small container of Vick’s Vaporub with them, using the menthol fragrance to mask the sickening sweet smell of rotting flesh. But Frank’s supply had run out and he needed to run by the drugstore.

Doc was wearing his standard uniform--white lab coat over a Grateful Dead T-shirt, battered old jeans, and red suspenders. His long, graying brown hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail, but in here, it was always stuffed under a clear shower cap so as not to contaminate evidence. When Frank entered the room, he could hear Blue Oyster Cult coming from the cassette deck in the corner. As Doc made a long incision down the breastbone of a cadaver to begin his examination, the first few guitar chords of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” began to play. When Frank approached, he had to fight not to laugh.

Frank stood there for a few moments, but Doc didn’t react, obviously engrossed in his work.

“Hey, Doc?” Frank said, his voice a respectful half-whisper. It was never a good idea to sneak up on a man with a scalpel in his hand.

Doc turned, his magnifying glasses making him resemble a huge insect with a MENSA membership.

“Frank!” he exclaimed. “Come on in, buddy. I’m done with your bones. That Buttermilk case.” He consulted his notes. “853267.”

“Great,” Frank said, the news sitting like a rock in his gut.

Doc looked at him with a curious expression. Frank figured he was trying to read the lack of enthusiasm.

“They’re old, man. I mean old old.” Doc peeled the glasses off and went to the sink, where he scrubbed his hands with stinky medical soap before shaking Frank’s.

“Yeah, I know.”

“The shoes a dead giveaway?”

“No, the locket.”

“So, any idea who this woman is?”

“My mother’s sister, Libbie.”

Doc’s eyes widened. He shook his head and let out a low whistle as Frank’s mouth curved in a grim half-smile.

“Do I even need to tell you any of this? Or do you know it all already?”

“Hit me. I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know what she looked like. My mother never talked about her or showed me any pictures of her. I only know she disappeared years ago.”

“Based on the length of the leg bones, I’m thinking she was about five foot seven or five foot eight. Plus, she had black hair.” Doc showed Frank the small clump of hair he’d found with the skeleton, along with the remnants of the black dress and shoes. “What was left of the blanket was bloodstained. Most of it is eroded and gone, but you can see this discoloration here.” He pointed at the fragment of material.

“Now, none of the bones were damaged by gunshot, and the guys on the scene didn’t find any shell casings or other possible weapons nearby. Probably not a gun. If someone stabbed her, there might have been some scrape marks on the bones where they were struck as the knife was penetrating, but that’s not definite either. I’ve taken some hair samples and sent them to the lab to see if poison was involved. But so far, I got nothin’. It also appears that we can rule out a broken neck.”

“What about that metal thing we found? Do we know what it is?”

Doc reached over to the counter where a small tray rested. He used it to place any personal effects he found with the bodies so they could be added to the evidence and, if the culprit was found and tried, returned to the families. With a gloved hand, he grabbed the item off the tray.

It was of a tarnished, sterling silver finish, slim like an ice pick, with a small, curved circular hook at one end and a fancy, carved handle at the other that culminated in a tiny amethyst bead at the tip.

“This, I believe, is a buttonhook,” Doc said, holding it up.

“A what?” Frank cocked his head.

“A buttonhook. Remember the fancy old shoes they used to wear?” He picked up the topmost portion of one of the shoes they’d found, then the tool. “They needed one of these little guys to help them do up the front.” Holding the device at the proper angle, he demonstrated in the air next to the one button that remained on the shoe.

“Aaah…” Frank said, nodding as he understood what he was looking at.

“And before you ask, I tested it, and yes, there appears to be some degraded blood on it too. I don’t know if it was lethal enough to be the weapon—I mean, I’m not sure how much damage someone could have done with it.” He fingered the shaft of the tool. “This middle part is pretty flimsy for stabbing somebody. It would have broken or bent with too much force. But somebody used it to do something to her.”

Chapter Four

U
pon his return from the morgue, Frank found a note from his boss on his desk. Lieutenant Elliott Quinn had been in charge for a little over a year after being transferred in from Rochester. He was a decent guy—balding and with a bad Cohiba habit, but he was fair, and he didn’t take crap from anybody, two traits Frank admired.

Hey, Frank,” he said when Frank knocked on his doorframe. From his tone of voice, Frank could tell he was on the phone with somebody from brass, but he made up a reason to end the call and gestured Frank into his office. “I got some concerns about this Buttermilk case. I just wanted to hash things out with you.”

“You heard, huh?”

“She’s your freaking grandmother or something?”

“Aunt.”

“I don’t wanna get too personal here, Frank, but you know this is a conversation we gotta have.”

“Look, Lieutenant, to tell the truth, I know very little about this woman. She disappeared a long time before I was even born. I’ve never even seen a picture of her. To me, it’s almost like she didn’t exist at all. But she did, and now we got a case to solve. Honestly, I can retain my objectivity about this. Scout’s honor.” He wasn’t necessarily vested in his aunt, but if he could bring some peace to his mother, he would call it a winner. Quinn didn’t need to know that though. That was too much personal baggage Frank didn’t want to unpack at work.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

Quinn looked closely at Frank, then the corners of his mouth curled.

“All right. Go figure out what happened. This is one hell of a human interest story, if nothing else.”

“Got it.”

Feeling a bit of a buzz from his conversation with Quinn, Frank sat back at his desk and brainstormed for a minute. He felt foolish for not thinking of it before, but he needed Russ Chaffee’s help. Ithaca’s town historian, Russ was a retired Cornell history professor who lived up on the hill. He sported a mane of majestic gray hair and a full beard and favored blazers with elbow patches. He drove an old beat-up Volvo station wagon and knew everything there was to know about the Finger Lakes.

The fact that New York mandated having a historian for each town had been perfect for Russ. He and Ithaca fit like macaroni and cheese. He knew every street, both modern and in its historical incarnation, and he could tell you anything you wanted to know about the personages who had once called this town or the surrounding areas home. Russ’s grandfather had been a town elder, and both his grandparents had been active in the community. They’d regaled him with so many tales of the good old days that he could rattle the stories off as well as if he had witnessed them in person. He could also recite the family relationships and intermarriages of quite a few of the prominent families in the area. Russ and the historians from Trumansburg, Lansing, and Enfield had been good friends for years and often had coffee or lunch together when they could. The man was a walking encyclopedia of local lore. So although his mother was still being uncooperative, Frank knew he could depend on Russ to fill in the gaps.

Choking down his cup of swill from the office coffee pot, Frank searched for Russ’s number. He needed to get organized. After sifting through a few geological layers on his desk, he found it at last.

“Hey, Frank. What’s new?”

“Hi, Russ. I need to meet with you right away about a case I’m working. And you’ll need to have your source stuff nearby for this.”

“Sounds intriguing!” Russ said. “Come on up!”

“I’m on my way,” Frank said, grabbing his jacket and keys.

His car wended its way up the hill to College Town, the neighborhood nestled near the Cornell campus, where Russ and his wife Janet owned a charming bungalow. Janet was also a professor, but her areas were English and Classical Literature. She and Frank saw each other every two weeks or so down at the grocery, but hadn’t gotten to talk as much while Janet was deep in finals.

Janet and Russ had painted their own house—a muted sage, with bright tangerine shutters and front door. Janet had planted multiple pots of marigolds for the porch, and orange and yellow daylilies lined the front walk. A Calder-style rusted metal sculpture hung from the roof of the front porch, twisting in the breeze.

Russ was waiting for him when he pulled up.

They shook hands, and Russ offered him some fresh coffee and a bagel.

“Can’t refuse an offer like that,” Frank said, smiling as he nabbed a blueberry bagel from the box. Then Janet handed him a mug, anointed with a little cinnamon on top.

“You’re an angel,” he said, taking his cup.

“That’s what they tell me.” She smiled, taking a copy of the
Ithaca Journal
and heading for the dining table to check out the headlines. “I’ll leave you boys to your important business.”

“Let’s go in here,” Russ said, guiding Frank into his study.

When he visited, Frank was always dumbfounded by Russ’s love of history. Stepping into this room felt like stepping back in time. Russ had painted it a comforting café au lait and covered the hardwoods with a kilim rug. Barristers’ bookshelves lined the walls. They were crammed full of thick tomes with titles like
A Finger Lakes Compendium
,
A History of Modern Day Ithaca,
and of course, Selkreg’s
Landmarks of Tompkins County
, a doorstop of local history from the previous century that could fetch two-hundred dollars at antique stores nearby. Above the bookshelves hung several framed vintage maps of the area, some from as far back as 1840. Large sepia-toned photos of Taughannock Falls and Robert Treman State Park matted into rich dark wood frames alternated with the maps across the wall. A desk piled with papers stood to one side, but Russ also kept an old battered wooden worktable in the middle of the room for conferring with Ithacans and other interested history buffs.

“The suspense is killing me. What is this all-important matter you needed to discuss? I’ve been chafing at the bit since you got off the phone.” Russ pulled out a chair at the worktable and made himself comfortable, gesturing to another for Frank.

“I need to know what you might know about a missing person case. One involving a woman named Libbie Morgan.”

Russ let out a low whistle. “Libbie Morgan? Is that what this is all about? Did someone find her? After all this time?”

Frank nodded. “We found her bones up at Buttermilk Falls day before yesterday.”

Russ stared at Frank with obvious interest. Then his genealogist brain put two and two together. “Frank, she would have been your…”

“My aunt, yes. There was a locket on the body. My grandparents’ photos were inside.”

“Found after seventy years? Unbelievable.” Russ shook his head. “Do we know what happened yet? How can I help?”

“We still don’t know how she died. I’m hoping you can help me figure out that part. My problem is that my mother refuses to talk about her sister. I know next to nothing about this woman, but my sister told me back when I was a teenager that she had just disappeared. I don’t know anything about it. I was hoping you could fill in the rest.”

Russ thought a moment.

“Let’s see. We can start at the beginning. I don’t know how much you know about your grandfather.” He headed to the bookshelf, picked up one of the local history books and, after checking the index, turned to the biographical sketches portion. Looking back at Frank was the same face from the locket, very much like his own, with heavy brow, full lips, and the similar gray mat of hair with receding hairline.

“DeWitt Clinton Morgan. He was an attorney here in town.”

“I knew that much. And he drank a lot.”

Russ paused a minute. “That didn’t come until later, after your grandmother died. I think that was how he manifested his grief. Your aunt was very beautiful. Eighteen years old. You said you’ve never seen a picture of her?”

Frank shook his head. Not surprising Russ didn’t know. Maude never talked about her sister to anyone.

“I think I may have a bad newspaper picture of her here somewhere,” Russ said. He rifled through a huge stack of papers on his desk and pulled out a page from an article in the microfilm stash at the Tompkins County Public Library.

The photo print showed a girl with what looked like pale skin and a flirtatious smile, with the bee-stung lips so popular for the age. She wore a plaid dress and a large wide-brimmed hat. Frank touched the photo with his index finger, thinking she looked like images he’d seen of old silent film actresses. And even more, she looked like his mother when she was younger.

“In September of nineteen-sixteen, she disappeared,” Russ continued, glancing at Frank. “Nobody knew what happened to her. She’d been dating a couple of fellows, but no one was able to figure out if she just left town or if foul play was involved. Just poof, and she was gone. She said she was going shopping with a friend of hers, but the girl later came clean and said she’d lied for Libbie. Libbie wouldn’t tell her why she needed to lie, but the girl knew she’d been seeing two men.”

This case was enormous. Other than his mother, who else might still be alive who remembered any of it? It was like something out of the movies. Taking a pen and poising it over his notepad, Frank readied himself for any nuggets that Russ could impart. As they looked over the clippings, the doorbell rang.

Frank could hear Janet pad to the door in her socks, and then female voices filled the hallway outside the office.

Russ turned toward the open door.

“That you, Linda?” he called.

“Yep!” a voice called back.

“Why don’t you come see us when you’re done talking shop?”

“Gotcha!” she called back.

Then, turning back to his companion: “Frank, remember Linda Horan, who used to run The Bluebird Café over on Cascadilla Street?” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “She always talked about writing a book on the case. She’s a bit of a history buff too. I’ll bet she’d love to know about all this. I think she could be a big help to you.”

Frank laughed. “At this point, any help I can get is a big bonus.”

After a few moments, Janet opened the study door a little wider to let Linda in, waved at everyone, and then went back to her paper.

Linda swept into the room and greeted them both with a big smile, her perfume a subtle combination of sandalwood and vanilla.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Hey, Frank.”

“Hey, Linda. It’s been months. How’ve you been?”

“Not bad, I’ve just been swamped. My life consists of books, books, and more books. I live on takeout and black coffee, and I don’t leave my place much anymore except for school.”

Frank looked at Linda with new eyes. He hadn’t seen much of her since she’d sold her half of the café a while back. So school was where she’d been. He noted her dark mane of ringlet curls and green eyes, a semi-pug nose, and little round glasses that couldn’t disguise what an attractive woman she was underneath. She wore an artsy-looking green vest over a white T-shirt and a pair of cropped jeans with white Keds sneakers. Just as he remembered her—breezy and with a youthful sense of style. She reminded him a bit of Shannon in that outfit.

“Linda, you’ll never guess what Frank has found.”

“Jimmy Hoffa?” she asked, grinning.

“Libbie Morgan,” Russ said.

“My aunt,” Frank added for effect.

“No kidding?” She sank into the nearest chair, leaning forward as she digested the information. “Oh my God! Where? When?”

“Two days ago,” Frank said. “Up at Buttermilk Falls. A hiker found her bones. I was just getting the details of the situation from Russ.”

“From Russ? Didn’t your mother ever…?”

“She refuses to talk about her sister to anyone. I don’t know why.”

“Well, your grandmother died of a broken heart—or at least a weak one—not long after the disappearance. Your grandfather kind of went downhill after that,” Russ said.

“Thanks for the diplomacy,” Frank said. “He became an alcoholic and his partner took over their law practice.”

“Russ, you said that Libbie’s friend’s name was Olive Rumsey, right?” Linda offered.

“She married a guy from around here, from what I recall,” Russ said. “You know what? She may still be alive. She married a King something. Kingery? Kingsley?” He closed his eyes for a moment and then snapped his fingers.

“Kingman. Her married name was Kingman.” He went back to the huge pile of papers, flipping through it with determination, and pulled out another one. “I’ve been giving Linda bits of information here and there as I find them,” Russ said. “I just haven’t gotten all this stuff re-filed. Now I can lay my hands on just about anything you need.”

Frank and Linda laughed as he sifted through his stash. The next jewel he handed them contained an obituary for a Cornell professor named Elisha Rumsey who had died in nineteen thirty-three. His daughter Olive was listed as a survivor, with the married name of Kingman. At the time of the obituary, she and her husband Arthur lived in nearby Watkins Glen.

“You can check with the historian in Watkins Glen to see how late they were there,” Russ continued. “They might have a cemetery transcription or two, or maybe a few city directories or some other records. Who knows? Maybe they’re still alive. I don’t know if Olive told anybody anything more, but I sure would like to know what the real story was.”