A Perfect Case of Murder

  Copyright© Bety Comerford (B.T. Lord)

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1546406655

  ISBN-10: 1546406654

  Cover Art by Michelle Motuzas

  Cover Design by Alison Ouellette

  Other books in the Twin Ponds Mystery Series:

  Murder on Ice

  Murder by Misadventure

  To Alison O., Allison C., and Maureen

  You make these books what they are

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart

  PROLOGUE

  Allagash, Maine

  Mid-April

  Win Sackett slowly made his way down the well-worn path that snaked its way through the dense forest. He’d been walking this trail ever since he was a young child; hard to believe that was seventy years ago. Although life had buffeted him about, he always took comfort that these woods had been here before he’d been born and, God willing, would be here long after he was gone. There was a permanency here that he’d never found anywhere else. The world had changed much since his birth, but these woods never did. They remained the same, an oasis of solace, away from the craziness of ‘out there’.

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath beside an old oak where, as a young man, he’d carved his initials along with those of Darla, the girl he eventually married. Reaching up with his gnarled finger, he gently traced the faded letters, chuckling at the memory of that long ago summer day. The chuckling brought on a bout of coughing that brought his lightheartedness to an end.

  Damn it, he used to be able to sprint down this path and never think twice about it. Now, his knees ached, his hands shook from palsy, and he found it difficult at times to catch his breath. But until the Grim Reaper decided to make his appearance, Win was determined to complete this errand. He had to. It was now his responsibility.

  His family had been living in this area since the mid-1800s, originally brought here by the logging business. As each generation passed, it fell to the last remaining member to take on the task of caring for those who came before. Each spring when the harsh weather broke, the snows melted and hints of balmy days appeared, Win took the increasingly arduous journey of walking the mile between his cabin and the small parcel of land that served as his family’s graveyard. There, he tidied up each plot and made any repairs to the tombstones that might not have survived the heavy snows. Then he would perch himself on the large pile of rocks that sat in the corner of the small cemetery and talk to the nearest gravestone. That was where Darla was buried. He’d tell her what he’d been up to since he’d visited last fall, how the kids, grandkids and great grandkids were doing out in the world, away from the place they’d grown up in. He’d tell her he missed her, still loved her and assure her that soon he’d be joining her. Then he’d haul his old bones up and shuffle along the mile long walk back to his cabin. He’d make this trip several more times before winter set in, wondering each time if this would be his last visit.

  Win shifted the backpack on his shoulder where he carried his pruners, a small shovel, and a repair kit for the stone. Last year, the corner of one of the tombstones had broken off and it took him hours to put it back in place. He hoped he wouldn’t find any more broken stone this year. He wasn’t sure he had the stamina, but he’d feel guilty if he left it broken -- an affront to the ancestor buried there.

  The end of the forest was just ahead. He had one more hill to get over, then the panoramic vista would open up, revealing a huge, rolling meadow. In the distance, he’d see mountains and a stream meandering through the landscape. In the past, this had been one of his favorite views. He would sit for hours in the graveyard and just stare at the magnificence of nature. But now the scene was ruined by a cabin, barn and paddock that had been built four years before.

  He still shook his head in sadness and a twinge of anger. In order to pay off some large tax bills, his brother, just before he died, sold off much of the family land, including the plot where the family cemetery was located. It had been bought by a woman from Boston, who’d immediately proceeded to put up a luxurious cabin and barn for her chickens, ducks, goats and mare. Win had been furious, but by the time he found out, it was too late. He’d descended on the woman, and although he found her cold and impervious, he did at least manage to extract an agreement that she would allow him to come as often as he wanted to tend the family cemetery. It was the only concession she made. Soon stories began to circulate in the small town of Allagash that she was forbidding everyone to trespass on her land, even though locals had been hunting and fishing there for years. Henry Harding was in outright revolt against the old woman, taking her to court over violation of their century’s old rights of way that lay across her property.

  Win called her a ‘crispy critter’, one of those environmental types that took the idea of a virgin wilderness too far. It was said she wouldn’t allow so much as a twig to be taken off her property. Nevertheless, so far he’d managed not to offend her, and he planned to keep it that way. As much as a proud man like him loathed to admit it, she had him over a barrel. If he wanted to continue to tend to the family cemetery, he needed to keep his mouth shut.

  The old man was huffing and puffing by the time he got over the hill. He stopped once more to catch his breath and gazed over the meadow, pointedly ignoring the woman’s cabin that lay to the left of the trail that passed by the cemetery and looped down towards her home. Thankfully, his destination was to the right, bordering the forest not too far from the path.

  He turned that way now, hoping he wouldn’t need to do too much clean-up. In the distance, he heard the sounds of something crashing against something else, its eerie echo reverberating around him.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  He stopped and looked around. It was then he noticed the gate to the cemetery blowing back and forth in the swift breeze that blew up the valley towards the forest. The plot was surrounded by an old and rusted wrought iron fence that had been placed there at the end of the 19thcentury. The gate itself was usually closed; there was no need for locks since there wasn’t anything of value to steal.

  As he approached, he wondered how the gate had come loose. The latch was tight. He always made sure it was securely fastened each time he left.

  This could only mean one thing.

  Someone had entered the cemetery.

  Damn it. He hoped to God kids hadn’t knocked down the tombstones in a sick attempt at ‘having fun’. It would take him forever, and use stamina he didn’t have anymore, to fix the twenty or so gravestones.

  A few yards from the cemetery, he caught sight of something that made him slow his step. Something that was out of place. Something that didn’t belong.

  The thought of potential vandalism was instantly forgotten as he suddenly felt apprehensive. Not afraid, but wary of how this was going to affect his life. His first thought was to turn around and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. He was 78 years old, for chrissakes. He didn’t need any hassles. And this promised to be a doozy. Yet, being the man he was, Win pushed himself forward, praying that what he was seeing wasn’t quite what he was seeing.

  He walked through the gate and stood for a long time, staring down at the tombstone in the oldest part of the cemeter
y. He didn’t need to read the epitaph – he knew it was the grave of the founder of the family in Maine, a tough ornery logger with the outrageous name of Pictorius Sackett. However, it was what was lying beside old Pictorius’ gravestone that made him uncharacteristically curse under his breath.

  A pair of bright red Wellingtons looked vaguely obscene in the muddied patch of snow. What struck Win as even more obscene was the body still attached to them.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twin Ponds, Maine

  Twenty-four hours later

  Sheriff Cammie Farnsworth stared at Doctor Samuel Westerfield in disbelief. Forty five minutes ago, she’d been asleep in a warm bed, nestled next to the man she loved. Ten minutes ago, she’d been dozing in her armchair, lured out of that warm bed by the sounds of what turned out to be a deer walking around her property. Now she was standing in her living room, still in her pajamas, staring slack jawed at an uncharacteristically unkempt Doc who was demanding she go to Allagash. Immediately. With him. Because his aunt had been killed.

  Doc was a member of one of Boston’s oldest and richest families. He was accustomed to getting his own way. Being wealthy, as well as serving as the town physician and county coroner, ensured that when he issued an order in his clipped, John F. Kennedy-esque accent, it was obeyed immediately. But his implacable demand that Cammie drop everything and accompany him to the northern reaches of the State of Maine was making her head spin. And causing her temper to slowly ignite.

  Allagash was a small town at the entrance to Maine’s vast pristine forests. Located at the juncture of the Upper St. John and Allagash rivers, it made tiny Twin Ponds look like a major metropolitan city. There wasn’t much up there, except woods and more woods.

  “What do you mean your aunt has been killed?” she asked , willing herself to fully wake up and comprehend what he was saying.

  “Murdered. Slain. Snuffed out. Executed. Obliterated. Done in,” Doc retorted.

  Jace Northcott, Cammie’s live-in boyfriend, saw the telltale signs around her mouth that she was about to erupt. He knew how much she hated to be abruptly awakened, and Doc had done an excellent job of abruptly awakening both of them. His abrasive tone wasn’t helping matters any either. Anxious to stave off Armageddon, he stepped in between Cammie and Doc.

  “We’re very sorry for your loss , Doc. What exactly happened to her?” Jace’s calm demeanor mollified Doc.

  He plopped his 5 ft. 6 inch frame down on the couch, then looked down at it in surprise. “Good Lord, this couch is an affront. When this is over, I strongly suggest you purchase a new one, or risk facing a lifetime of crippling back pain.”

  This wasn’t the first complaint Cammie had gotten about her lumpy, uncomfortable couch. She really was going to have to buy a new one and soon.

  “I received a phone call from the State Police informing me my Aunt Helen had been discovered shot to death on her property,” he began, his voice shaking slightly as he raked his hand through his thinning ginger colored hair. “She’d sustained a gunshot to the back of the head and seven additional shots to her back and thighs.”

  “Seven?” Cammie echoed.

  “Yes. The coroner concluded the killer used a high caliber pistol, probably a 45, with some type of hollow point bullets.”

  “My God,” she whispered as she flinched in horror. A 45 caliber hollow point bullet was capable of inflicting serious damage. The exit wound on her face, if she had a face left, would have left a hole the size of a baseball. No wonder Doc looked shaken. Someone had not only wanted his aunt dead – they’d wanted her annihilated.

  Doc nodded grimly. “From the position of the body, they believe she was turning away from her killer when she was shot.”

  “So it wasn’t an execution style shooting?” Cammie asked.

  “No.” He took a long, shuddering breath. “It happened yesterday morning. The authorities were only able to reach me an hour ago with the news.”

  He rubbed his knuckles against his chin, the sound of his uncharacteristically unshaven bristles rasping throughout the small cabin. “She was 71 years old, for pity’s sakes,” he said, more to himself than to Cammie and Jace. “Why would anyone do that to an old woman?”

  “Doc, I know Cammie would like to help you, but she doesn’t have jurisdiction in Allagash,” Jace gently pointed out.

  “Geoff Mantree is the lead investigator up there,” Cammie added. “I met him last year. He’s very good.”

  “He was the officer I spoke to on the phone. I’m not questioning his expertise. I’m sure he’s as good as you say he is. We arranged for me to meet with him at his headquarters in Houlton to answer any questions he may have before I continue up to my aunt’s property.” He looked up at Cammie, his owlish eyes bloodshot through his wire rimmed glasses, reflecting his grief and sadness. “I just need you – that is, what I’m asking, what I’d like you to do -”

  Cammie saw his escalating frustration and knew exactly what it was he couldn’t say. “I’ll go pack,” she replied as she grabbed Jace’s arm and physically pulled him into their bedroom where she closed the door.

  “You’re not seriously going all the way up to Allagash, are you? You have no jurisdiction up there and you said yourself this Officer Mantree knows what he’s doing. Besides, can you even take that much time off?” Jace asked as he stood near the bed and watched Cammie pull her old battered suitcase out from the closet.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be gone that long. And Rick and Emmy can handle things while I’m away.” She gave him a mirthless smile. “It’s not like Twin Ponds is Crime Central. Thank God.”

  “Why are you going?” He demanded.

  “Because I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Doc needs me for moral support.”

  “Then why didn’t he just come out and say so?”

  Cammie gave him a look as she tossed some underwear into the suitcase. “Because he can’t.” She threw up her hand when Jace opened his mouth to protest. “Where Doc comes from, you never show emotional vulnerability. I know it’s silly, but it just isn’t done. It’s all that stiff upper lip nonsense. They consider it weak if you actually show you have emotions.”

  Jace clicked his tongue in disgust. “That’s screwed up, you know.”

  “It is for normal people. But his family isn’t normal. They’re-” She sought the right words to describe them. “Let’s just say that if I had a choice between spending time with Big Foot or spending time with his father, Big Foot would win hands down.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. Mr. Westerfield has this air about him. He can make you feel less than dirt with just one look.”

  “Doc does that.”

  Cammie shook her head. “Doc is an amateur next to his father.”

  Jace came over and wrapped his arms around her. “We’ve only been back together a short time and now you’re taking off on me.”

  Cammie sighed. It was true. Five months before, Jace had become unwittingly caught up in a murder investigation involving Eli Kelley, a man who’d been both a hero to Twin Ponds and Cammie’s ex-boyfriend. In the end, she’d caught Eli’s killer, only to face the implosion of her relationship with Jace. It had taken a bizarre and unfortunate series of recent deaths to make them realize that, despite the pain and bitterness caused by Eli’s murder, deep down they still loved each other. Two weeks before they’d decided to give their relationship another try. Now Doc’s fateful knock on their door that morning threatened to interfere with their fledgling reunion.

  “I owe it to Doc,” she tried to explain. “In his unique, cantankerous, pain in the ass way, he’s always been there for me. When I was shot apprehending Eli’s killer, he took me in, no questions asked.” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever seen what a 45 hollow point bullet can do to a person?” Jace shook his head. “It will turn you to mush. I can only imagine what he’s going through knowing what was done to his aunt, who he obviously cared a great deal for. On t
op of that, he’s going to have to deal with a family he’s convinced hates him because he’s gay. He needs me, if only to act as a buffer between himself and his father. I can’t let him down.” Cammie threw her arms around Jace’s neck and gave him a long kiss. “Please try and understand.”

  He sighed deeply as he slipped his arms around her waist. “I do. I may not like it, but I do understand.”

  “I should be home by the end of the week.”

  “It’s that bad with his dad, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah. His dad makes Stalin and Hitler look like loveable pussycats.”

  Lieutenant Geoff Mantree was located at the State Police Headquarters in Houlton. As part of Troop F, he and his troopers were responsible for maintaining the law in the large Aroostook County, which included the small town of Allagash.

  Having met Mantree at a weekend wilderness tracking class the year before, Cammie was happy to see he remembered her. Tall, well built, with black hair and dark brown eyes, the officer showed them into his office.

  “Thank you for coming in,” he said to Doc. “Good to see you again, Cam. Are you here on a professional basis?”

  Cammie shook her head. “I’m just here as a friend.”

  “Have you been able to find out more about what happened to Helen?” Doc asked.

  “As I told you on the phone, she was found by Win Sackett when he went to do maintenance on his family’s small cemetery plot that is now on Mrs. Carsgrove’s property. Her body was located behind one of the tombstones. All indications are that she was surprised by her assailant. There were no defensive wounds, nor were there signs of a struggle. The coroner believes she was shot first in the back of the head from at least six feet away.”

  “So she trusted her killer enough to turn away from him,” Doc replied.