A Murder In Parlor Harbor Read online

  A MURDER IN PARLOR HARBOR

  BY

  ARNO B. ZIMMER

  “Another Det. Billy Meacham, Jr. Mystery Novel”

  A Murder In Parlor Harbor Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2017 Arno B. Zimmer

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover Art By Mark Philips

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE - Ten Years Later and Two Hours Away

  CHAPTER ONE - The Mexican Mennonite

  CHAPTER TWO - Rudy Gantz

  CHAPTER THREE - Rendezvous at Devil’s Corner

  CHAPTER FOUR - Ozbert Symington Patchett

  CHAPTER FIVE - Woody at Thorndyke College

  CHAPTER SIX - Woody and Jerry Get Reacquainted

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Pappy’s Snack Shack

  CHAPTER EIGHT - Back at Pritchard Cottage

  CHAPTER NINE - In the Parlor Harbor Jail

  CHAPTER TEN - The Meachams Arrive in Parlor Harbor

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Sheriff Grimsley Visits the Patchett Compound

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Cecil Ainsworth

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Jail House Reunion

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - The Waiting Game

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Lt. Fogarty Does Some Digging

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Alea Iacta Est

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Jerry Takes a Boat Ride

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - “All We Want Are the Facts, Ma’am”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - Photographic Memories

  CHAPTER TWENTY - Doc Sauer Arrives in Parlor Harbor

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Follow the Money

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - The Turning Point

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - The Rapid Unraveling

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - The End Game

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Years Later and Two Hours Away

  It was the summer of 1967 and it had been a rather peaceful decade in Parlor City since those two tumultuous years in the mid-1950s that shattered the town’s idyllic self-image. Before those dark days, who among the townsfolk would have imagined two murders, a plundering of assets at the prestigious Parlor City Institute, the suicide of the Institute’s administrator, the resignation of a disgraced Mayor and the eventual dramatic capture of the malignant con man, Winston Siebert III, who instigated all the mayhem and misfortune?

  Sleepy little Parlor City, tucked in a valley along the Muskrat River had always felt itself immune from the vicissitudes faced by the rest of the world. That image was now seen as a façade, a Potemkin Village, for those willing to acknowledge the malevolent side of humanity.

  Still, while the town had not recovered its halcyon past, the world outside of Parlor City seemed to be, by comparison, in utter chaos. Race riots engulfed major cities like Detroit and Baltimore and had even broken out in smaller towns like Durham, NC. Over in Europe, all hell had broken loose as well, where some group called the Red Army Faction and a splinter group known as the Baader-Meinof Gang were terrorizing Germany.

  And then, there were the war protesters with their myrmidons on college campuses and elsewhere who were becoming increasing confrontational and even, somewhat ironically, bellicose themselves. By comparison, Parlor City seemed relatively tranquil and the citizenry was determined to keep it that way.

  Billy Meacham, Jr., once described as the “boy wonder detective”, had just taken the helm as Police Chief in Parlor City, a reprise of his temporary and premature assumption of that role back in 1955. This time, however, he was a seasoned veteran and worthy of the promotion. Middle age sat well with Billy Meacham. His curly brown hair had retreated near what one of his old football buddies termed the “50-yard line” and there were tinges of gray around the temple. Reading glasses hung from his neck which he deployed almost begrudgingly, preferring to squint.

  Meacham was now more sanguine than in those early days as a cop and he wasn’t weighted down by the psychological baggage of prior years, the doubts and insecurities that haunted him as a young man trying to live up to the image of his illustrative father, the revered Capt. Billy Meacham, Sr. Still, he couldn’t prevent his mind from occasionally wandering back to the dramatic events of ten years earlier and the individuals who had befouled his beloved hometown.

  The ex-mayor, one Adelbert Wattle, went to prison for complicity in the 1957 murder of local business potentate and his sometime partner in graft, Woodrow Braun. While Braun lay in a semi-comatose state in a bed at the Parlor City Institute, recovering from a mighty blow to the head, he was suffocated with a pillow by a late-night intruder, his life snuffed out within a matter of minutes. Wattle, the keeper of secrets both picayune and momentous, was convicted as an accessory to the murder and was now up for parole. His once dominating influence not just in Parlor City but statewide had evaporated. Still, powerful forces in the political establishment worried more about what he might say upon his release than anything he might do.

  It was Wattle’s corpulent wife, however, who had orchestrated Braun’s murder with as much relish as she would when loading up her tray at a smorgasbord. She had no compunction about manipulating a half-wit orderly from the Institute into doing her dirty work as an act of fealty. Generally considered the brains behind the mayoral throne, she had never suffered fools with impunity and never forgave a slight, much less a vicious insult. When years earlier Braun had referred to her, more than once and with verisimilitude, as a “sweaty beast with a dainty perspiring mustache”, the biting invective got back to her.

  Revenge was delayed for the Mayor’s wife when Braun moved away to Arizona but it was inevitable upon his return to Parlor City. Unrepentant, she paid the price with a first-degree murder conviction. With her fiery temper and acerbic personality, the mercurial Mildred Wattle never adjusted to prison life and one day “blew a gasket”, according to her cell mate who found her gasping for breath on the floor one morning. Disinclined to help, the insouciant inmate was a little too slow in calling a guard for assistance. As Mildred Wattle foamed and struggled on the cement floor for a last few breaths, she growled at her hovering cellmate. Perhaps, the mocking image of Woodrow Braun flashed before her eyes, as if to say, “now you know how it felt for me.”

  Billy’s stepson, Woodrow Braun Meacham, was spending the summer at the family’s lake cottage in Parlor Harbor a few hours away, contemplating an uncertain future after his recent graduation from Thorndyke College with a degree in history. Meacham wasn’t worried that Woody would skip across the lake to Canada to avoid his impending draft notice. With the war in Vietnam raging and the constant demand for fresh troops, it seemed likely that the notice would come soon. The two had many conversations about the boy’s options but fleeing the country or applying for conscientious objector status was verboten.

  If Woody enlisted as a grunt, he would almost certainly find himself on the front lines of the war as quickly as the Army could get him and thousands of other “college pukes”, as some cantankerous drill sergeants liked to call them, through basic training and on to transport boats. Maybe Woody would choose to fly jets like Meacham had in the Korean War but no pressure wo
uld be exerted by his stepfather to do so.

  It was getting late as Meacham sat at his desk when the telephone barked and jolted the new Chief from his ruminations. It was Harold Grimsley, the sheriff in the northern part of the county that included Parlor Harbor. Meacham recognized the gruff, stentorian voice immediately. “Hey, Detective Meacham, got the Braun boy here – locked up as a matter of fact. Assaulted one of my deputies when we brought him in for questioning in a murder that took place earlier this evening. Eye witness saw him with what appeared to be a bloody knife – yep, I’d say it doesn’t look good for the kid. Just wanted to give you a courtesy call. You know, one law enforcement professional to another and all.” Grimsley sounded almost cheery as he stopped and waited for Meacham to respond.

  “Let me talk to my son, Grimsley. His name is Meacham now – not Braun. You know he’s allowed a call,” Meacham said forcefully. “Oh, no can do, Detective, he’s still being processed. Sort of an unruly lad. As I said, roughed up one of my officers so we had to restrain him. But we’ll calm him down, don’t you worry. It’s best if you call back tomorrow. Of course, the lad has a right to an attorney when police want to grill him. You would agree with that basic right, wouldn’t you detective? Semper Fi.” Meacham did not miss the venomous sarcasm in Grimsley’s voice

  “I’m on my way, Grimsley. You best watch yourself,” Meacham said sternly through clenched teeth. He thought he heard Grimsley laugh and waited for the sheriff to click off before he slammed down the telephone. He was boiling inside but refused to take Grimsley’s bait like the younger Billy Meacham would certainly have done. Grimsley must have known that Woody’s legal name was now Meacham and that he had been promoted to Chief. Was the sheriff needling him, aching for a confrontation?

  It seemed likely that Grimsley still carried a grudge against Meacham for tricking his nephew into a murder confession back in 1955. Perhaps, it didn’t matter that Burt Grimsley was guilty as hell for the other heinous murder that racked Parlor City that year. Maybe revenge was all that counted to the sheriff – or so it appeared to Meacham, especially after Grimsley’s nephew received the ultimate “rough justice” of his own only a year into his prison term.

  Meacham knew that he had to call Gwen before leaving town and hoped she would agree to stay home while he assessed the situation in Parlor Harbor. He was sure that there had to be exculpatory or, at the very least, mitigating circumstances. Grimsley had painted a bleak picture but Meacham sensed that Grimsley hadn’t told the whole story – or maybe he didn’t even care.

  ***

  On the two-hour drive to Parlor Harbor, Billy and Gwen held hands intermittently but said almost nothing. An occasional squeeze by one or the other expressed their affectionate support and their concern for Woody. Meacham should have known that there was no way his wife would stay home.

  Gwen would be at the cottage when Woody was released to make sure he was as comfortable as possible as the details of the case against him unfolded. Meacham kept repeating “unruly lad” to himself, confident that Grimsley had fabricated the incident solely to get under his skin. What else had Grimsley made up?

  Before leaving town, Meacham had called the family’s long-time attorney, Alfred Busbee. He promised to talk to a few criminal defense lawyers in Parlor Harbor after stressing the importance of local representation. He hadn’t said anything to Billy or Gwen but Busbee was concerned about the new District Attorney, Ozbert Symington Patchett III, a politically ambitious prosecutor from a prominent old family who might be striving to create a more prominent profile before running for higher office. If Patchett could elevate his public image at the expense of Woody, so be it. After hearing the details of Billy’s conversation with Grimsley, Busbee’s hard-earned, cynical nature also made him worry about potential subterfuge by Sheriff Grimsley, possibly in cahoots with Patchett. In short, he already had grave doubts that Woody could receive a fair trial in a wealthy enclave like Parlor Harbor – a village two hours from Parlor City but worlds apart.

  Meacham was tightly gripping the steering wheel, thinking about Grimsley’s “Semper Fi” reference. Sure, Grimsley’s nephew was a Marine like both of them, but he was a brute and a confessed murderer. How did that fit with their honor code? And what kind of man did that make Harold Grimsley?

  Meacham felt Gwen’s hand softly touch his shoulder. “Ease up, Billy; your knuckles are turning white. Things will work out, just you see,” she said calmly with a soft smile creasing her mouth. Meacham loosened his grip and exhaled while easing up on the gas pedal. He shook his head in acknowledgment but said nothing. Gwen knew how to walk him back from the edge of the cliff. Part of her duty, she knew, was to maintain her stoic demeanor if only to keep her husband in check. When she finally saw her son, she wouldn’t be able to hold back.

  As he often did, Meacham thought back to that moment twelve years ago when he laid on Gwen’s front lawn, fading in and out of consciousness, with her angelic face covered in what seemed like a veil as she hovered above him. Smitten by the lovely Gwen for weeks but a diffident suitor at best, that unlikely event had brought them together. From that day forward, Billy Meacham had learned to accept happenstance, in all its manifestations, for good or evil.

  As they approached Parlor Harbor, the road made a long arc and brought the vast, majestic lake into view, snapping Meacham out of his trance-like state. The water was glimmering in the reflected moonlight and on any other night would have had a calming influence.

  Meacham saw the steamboat with the giant paddle wheel anchored at the dock and he immediately thought of Rudy Gantz. Woody’s childhood nemesis had started out harassing school children, shaking them down for their lunch money, then graduating to armed robbery and stealing a dead man’s car out of his garage. A stint in the state reformatory turned out to be a temporary stop on the way to the big house at Strathmore Prison for fencing stolen property.

  Rudy was out now and living in Parlor Harbor, part owner in a boat excursion business. Rumor was that his parents had conveniently died while he was in stir and left him their house in Parlor City. Upon his parole, he sold the house and invested the proceeds in his boating enterprise. Meacham had a bad feeling about Rudy Gantz. Any time he had been near Woody, going all the way back to grade school, trouble had ensued. Shuttling tourists around a lake did not fit Gantz’ profile. What was he up to, Meacham wondered? For now, he would keep his thoughts about Rudy Gantz to himself and not trouble Gwen but he made a mental note to have Lt. Fogarty check him out. Fogie has paroled the underbelly of Parlor City for years before his promotion to lieutenant and still had well-placed moles. He would dig out all the sordid details on Gantz’ recent history if there were any.

  Billy Meacham knew he had no authority in Parlor Harbor but that was not going to dissuade him from doing everything in his power to stop his stepson from being railroaded on trumped-up charges by a sheriff with a grudge.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Mexican Mennonite

  Strathmore Prison, tucked away outside a small upstate town in what was known as the miniature lakes region, wasn’t so bad for Jakob Reisman. He had calculated correctly that his time would be short, based on the minimal quantity of drugs seized at the time of his arrest. If not for one mistake, he probably never would have ended up in jail.

  His major disappointment was that he might not see his new-found love for almost a year and he feared that she might get tired of waiting for his release and attach herself to someone else. However, when letters started arriving weekly from Chicago, his confidence rose.

  Labeled the “Mexican Mennonite” by the press during his trial, he was clearly an anomaly that puzzled the judge and jury. He even garnered sympathy for his polite and deferential manner, speaking almost eloquently about how he had reluctantly become a drug courier in support of his desperate family back in Mexico. Even the prosecutor didn’t seem to object to the rather lenient sentence handed down, overlooking the fact that he was unable or unwilling to provide any d
etails about his handlers back in Mexico.

  The other inmates at Strathmore mostly left him alone, as if they feared being contaminated or cursed by someone who had been tagged as the Mexican Mennonite. Some wag nicknamed him “M&M” shortly after his processing at Strathmore and it stuck. With his blonde buzz cut, fair skin and muscular build, he certainly wasn’t a “wetback”, his cellmate insisted, as if that was a revelation. The Mennonite part stumped them for a while until a guard said he was like those Amish who dressed in black, spoke German and drove around in horse-drawn buggies. Someone suggested that he practiced witchcraft and had once lifted and impaled a man on a hook by simply staring intently at him. Well, he could abide such nonsense if it meant that he would be left alone.

  ***

  The Mennonites were a Dutch Anabaptist religious sect whose members were followers of a former Roman Catholic priest by the name of Menno Simons. Known for pacifism, non-violence and non-resistance, they constantly moved around Europe to avoid conscription into the army. Eventually, many migrated to North America with a considerable population settling in Canada where Jakob Reisman’s family arrived in the early 1900s, stopping first in Waterloo, Ontario where his father met and married Rachel Epp before moving west to Alberta.

  Industrious and close knit, the Mennonites became successful farmers and Jakob Reisman’s father was no exception. However, when Canadian officials, in the early 1920s, insisted that they put their children in school, panic set in. Not only would the children be exposed to a decadent culture but, equally if not more importantly, the farmers would lose the “free” labor that was so vital to their financial success.

  Fortuitously, it was also at this time that the Mexican government faced a critical shortage of agricultural output and was offering large swaths of acreage to anyone talented enough to work the land. Soon, the Mennonite migration south from Canada began until communities of the black-clad pacifists dotted the landscape in the northern Mexican province of Chihuahua.