The Wizard Murders Read Online Free Page B
Author: Sean McDevitt
Maine? What the hell did that crossword puzzle mean, anyway- 'pejorative, Maine'? God, I've been in the Pass for ten years and it feels more like fifty....
Pitt's brother Frank is a large, robust man with a dialect full of downeast Yankee. He owns a country store just outside of Boothbay Harbor. The last time Pitt was there a few years ago, Frank showed him how to make fudge with heavy cream, and took great delight in pointing out to him all of the beaver dams along Route 96. As thoughts of the colors of late October race through his mind and the memory of the wonderful dark smell of that fudge fills his nose, Pitt actually aches to return there- but then a quick shuffle of his feet against the rough sheets of his bed brings him promptly back to Beaumont, where he realizes immediately that this latest turn of events might indefinitely postpone any hopes he had of retiring any time soon. For years, Frank has been tantalizing him with the possibility of renting or maybe even buying a cabin near Boothbay- even going so far as to offer splitting the cost. He hates the thought of having to phone his brother yet again with more discouraging news.
But then, the Marshalls are gonna need me, and they're gonna need some help, he thinks. They're gonna need every ounce of support we can give them to get through this, but we're also gonna have to ask some really painful questions. Like, did your daughter have any weird boyfriends? Any creepy uncles? Any clue as to who this sick bastard might be? Dammit, how am I supposed to do this?
Pitt finally crashes into his usual deep sleep- fast and hard- but his mind is a raging turmoil by dawn when he opens his eyes. He sits down to a disappointingly weak cup of coffee- that jar barely even had a few crystals left- and sets to putting certain mental things in order.
CHAPTER FOUR
The call he places right before applying his aftershave is brief.
"Clarence? Pitt."
"Hey."
"Anything?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Okay, I'll be right down."
The drive to the station is awkward. Pitt is acutely aware that everybody recognizes him, recognizes his car, probably has high expectations of him (especially now) and it feels as though a thousand eyes are on him as he makes his way down Beaumont Avenue. The radio still has more or less the same report going, including that "deranged person" line... What the hell are they talking about? Pitt thinks to himself. What did somebody say, maybe without even realizing it? Pitt dealt somewhat with the media during a stint at a public affairs office for the National Guard during Vietnam, and he knows that some of those reporters don't miss a trick.
The mood in the office is grim as Pitt walks in.
"Anything?"
Clarence shakes his head. "Not in the past ten minutes, no."
"Very funny," Pitt responds, not really expecting an affirmative answer but feeling disappointed nonetheless.
Clarence tries to make it better for him. "Well, the paint used for the... 'symbol' or whatever the heck you want to call it is latex and lead-based, and could've been bought anywhere. Initial fingerprint tests in the bedroom so far have only turned up partials- the victim's, that's the Marshall's little girl from Cherry Valley- and the Gillette girl who actually lives there. Interviews with the family- and no, they're not doin' so well- don't show any indication of boyfriends, either current or former... the body's been taken to Riverside, autopsy is bein' performed this morning, coroner's office says any toxicology will take six to eight weeks... again, checkin' with the family there's no indication of drug use by anyone in that house, nothin'."
Pitt frowns. "Even if there had been, she wasn't in her own home. That's the part that gets me. So whatever this is, it's something external... it's..." Pitt rubs his eyes and struggles for words. "The girl wasn't with the wrong crowd."
A new secretary- a bleach
Pitt's brother Frank is a large, robust man with a dialect full of downeast Yankee. He owns a country store just outside of Boothbay Harbor. The last time Pitt was there a few years ago, Frank showed him how to make fudge with heavy cream, and took great delight in pointing out to him all of the beaver dams along Route 96. As thoughts of the colors of late October race through his mind and the memory of the wonderful dark smell of that fudge fills his nose, Pitt actually aches to return there- but then a quick shuffle of his feet against the rough sheets of his bed brings him promptly back to Beaumont, where he realizes immediately that this latest turn of events might indefinitely postpone any hopes he had of retiring any time soon. For years, Frank has been tantalizing him with the possibility of renting or maybe even buying a cabin near Boothbay- even going so far as to offer splitting the cost. He hates the thought of having to phone his brother yet again with more discouraging news.
But then, the Marshalls are gonna need me, and they're gonna need some help, he thinks. They're gonna need every ounce of support we can give them to get through this, but we're also gonna have to ask some really painful questions. Like, did your daughter have any weird boyfriends? Any creepy uncles? Any clue as to who this sick bastard might be? Dammit, how am I supposed to do this?
Pitt finally crashes into his usual deep sleep- fast and hard- but his mind is a raging turmoil by dawn when he opens his eyes. He sits down to a disappointingly weak cup of coffee- that jar barely even had a few crystals left- and sets to putting certain mental things in order.
CHAPTER FOUR
The call he places right before applying his aftershave is brief.
"Clarence? Pitt."
"Hey."
"Anything?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Okay, I'll be right down."
The drive to the station is awkward. Pitt is acutely aware that everybody recognizes him, recognizes his car, probably has high expectations of him (especially now) and it feels as though a thousand eyes are on him as he makes his way down Beaumont Avenue. The radio still has more or less the same report going, including that "deranged person" line... What the hell are they talking about? Pitt thinks to himself. What did somebody say, maybe without even realizing it? Pitt dealt somewhat with the media during a stint at a public affairs office for the National Guard during Vietnam, and he knows that some of those reporters don't miss a trick.
The mood in the office is grim as Pitt walks in.
"Anything?"
Clarence shakes his head. "Not in the past ten minutes, no."
"Very funny," Pitt responds, not really expecting an affirmative answer but feeling disappointed nonetheless.
Clarence tries to make it better for him. "Well, the paint used for the... 'symbol' or whatever the heck you want to call it is latex and lead-based, and could've been bought anywhere. Initial fingerprint tests in the bedroom so far have only turned up partials- the victim's, that's the Marshall's little girl from Cherry Valley- and the Gillette girl who actually lives there. Interviews with the family- and no, they're not doin' so well- don't show any indication of boyfriends, either current or former... the body's been taken to Riverside, autopsy is bein' performed this morning, coroner's office says any toxicology will take six to eight weeks... again, checkin' with the family there's no indication of drug use by anyone in that house, nothin'."
Pitt frowns. "Even if there had been, she wasn't in her own home. That's the part that gets me. So whatever this is, it's something external... it's..." Pitt rubs his eyes and struggles for words. "The girl wasn't with the wrong crowd."
A new secretary- a bleach
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