Excerpt #4, Sammie

Sammie
      Jennie met Detective Sergeant Samantha Ellsworth at 7:00 on Wednesday night at the State Police barracks in Edgartown, as planned. She greeted Jennie at the front desk of the police station and directed her into a spacious office with a large desk, three guest chairs, several file cabinets against one wall and photos of police officers—in and out of uniform—adorning another one. A third wall was consumed by a massive bookcase filled with books, thick three-ring binders, more photos, trophies, framed certificates and various other knick knacks symbolic of years as a public servant.

      A large stack of manilla folders sat on one corner of the desk. Jennie took them to be open cases that Sammie was working. There were two telephones, several pens of different colors, paperweights, a stapler, empty cardboard coffee cups and scraps of paper scattered over the desk top and around the edges of a calendar blotter pad filled with handwritten information. A brass nameplate mounted on wood sat on one corner of the desk and read S. R. Ellsworth, Detective.

      “So let me get right to it,” Jennie said. “I know your time is valuable, and considering the hour, I’m guessing you would normally be home right now. I’ve been reading news clippings and talking to some people about the Agnes Freeman case, so I know she went missing after failing to show up for work one day and hasn’t been heard from since. The stories I read said there were clues left behind but that police were never able to connect the dots. The stories never said what kinds of clues were found. I’m curious to know what those clues were, if you can tell me, because connecting dots is what Rob and I do best, and unlike you with your heavy caseload….” She pointed to the stack of folders on Sammie’s desk. “I have plenty of time on my hands.”

      “As I told you on the phone,” Sammie said, “I may be willing to provide you with some information, but anything I say from this point forward—as it relates to Agnes Freeman—will be strictly off the record unless and until I say otherwise. It has to be that way and as I recall, you agreed to that condition. I will allow you to take written notes but no recordings or photographs of any kind. If you have a recording set on your phone please turn it off.” Jennie didn’t. “Are we in agreement still?”

      “We are,” Jennie said, “but I believe there is one more condition that would only be fair to me. Someday, if everything goes well, this case is going to be solved and it will be a major media event when it does. At such a time, I would fully expect you or someone from your office to share the pertinent facts of the case with any and all reporters as part of your job, but there will be certain nuances—things you might say to me alone and the way you say them and the way they apply to my own investigation—that will belong exclusively to me, and you will allow me alone to use that information in the publication of my book. These are things that would not have to be shared with any Tom, Dick or Eileen who came sniffing around with a notebook and a recording device on their phone, nor would you be derelict in your duty as a police detective for withholding such information while still performing the basic functions of your job.”

      Sammie smiled broadly showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. It was the first crack, if you will, in her all business, Jack Webb-style “just the facts ma’am” demeanor. “That was quite a soliloquy,” she said to Jennie. “I was impressed. If you write half as well as you speak, this is going to be one hell of a book.”

Excerpt #3, Alvin

Alvin  

      Alvin Funderburk was 73 years old. He had been a newspaper man for the better part of 50 years, always at small local newspapers that still covered the town council, county government, sanitary board, planning department, school district and local police, along with weddings, engagements, funerals, traffic violations and hospitals. They still covered high school sports including football, basketball, soccer, wrestling, hockey and lacrosse and ran photos of kids, dogs, cats and trophy fish.

      He wore long-sleeve flannel shirts even in the summer time with baggy olive green, gray or khaki trousers and a sleeveless gray cardigan sweater, unbuttoned, with unfiltered Camel cigarettes in one side pocket and a scratched and dented silver Zippo lighter in the other. His shirt pocket was stuffed full of red pens, even though editing at the Packet was done on a computer screen and not on paper like the old days. Some habits die hard.

      He was known to drink Scotch at his desk, even during the day time and whether he had visitors or not. He smoked too much, had the rattling cough to prove it, and couldn’t care less. “Somethin’s gotta kill ya,” he always said when friends suggested he should quit. His clothes smelled like he’d been standing too close to a bonfire and his office smelled like an ash tray. If that offended people, they need not come inside.

      He had been at the Packet for 38 years and nothing had happened in or around the island that Alvin didn’t know about. That included the disappearance of Mellie Swinson some 20 years ago. Rob wouldn’t need to dig into any archives to get information about the missing girl. All he had to do was meet with Alvin on Monday afternoon, sit quietly in a chair with his arms folded and his legs crossed and listen to Alvin talk. Next to writing, talking was what Alvin Funderburk did best.

Excerpt #2, Book Ideas

Book ideas

   “Listen, I have an idea for our next book,” Jennie said. “I’ve been collecting newspaper clippings from the Boston Globe and other newspapers around this area and there are lots of stories about missing persons and unsolved murders and several of them stand out. One of the most compelling is the story of Agnes Freeman, a 30-year-old fast food worker who left her home about two years ago on her way to work and simply disappeared. She had kids at home and parents who lived nearby and two other jobs. When she didn’t show up for work, her boss called around and finally alerted the police. That was on May 18, 2007, the papers said. The story goes on to say there were several clues left behind but authorities were never able to connect the dots. I mean, think about it, Rob, connecting dots is what we do. Maybe we could solve this case and then write about it.”

      Rob took a drink of his beer, handed the newspaper to Jennie and suggested she read the story in the lower right-hand corner. The story read as follows:

Chatham police have no new leads

on 20^th anniversary of disappearance

   Twenty years ago this week, 18-year-old Melinda Marie Swinson went with her Chatham Central High School senior class for their annual weekend graduation trip to Martha’s Vineyard, departing the school parking lot on Friday morning, June 9, for a ferry ride to the island, with a planned return on Sunday at 6 p.m.

   When Sunday evening arrived and the Vineyard Ferry pulled into the Chatham docks, the students and their chaperones filed off quickly and went to meet parents and friends who were waiting to collect them. However, one student—the girl known as “Mellie” Swinson—was not among the group.

   Her sister, Judith, was at the dock waiting, but went home alone after calling her parents and informing them what had happened. Police were contacted and a search for the missing girl was begun.   

   Students interviewed in the following days could not agree on whether Mellie had even boarded the ferry at Edgartown that evening, and if she had, whether she could have fallen overboard during the 55-minute ride across the sound. Mellie was a quiet girl who kept to herself and had few friends at school, they agreed.

   One or two remembered seeing her buying a soda at the concession area as the ferry pulled into port, but no one remembered sitting with her or even talking to her after that, and no one has seen or heard from her since.

   Police in Chatham and Edgartown have never closed the case officially, but acknowledged this week they still have no idea what happened to Mellie Swinson and have no new leads to follow. 

Work begins on second Covington mystery

Great news! High Peaks Publishing has started work on the second book in the Covington Mystery Series, "An Empty Seat on the Ferry." We expect to have a cover design before too long. Publication is still a ways off, of course, but to help tide you over, I'll be posting some excerpts in this space. Here's the first one:

Excerpt #1, Rob and Jennie

Rob Covington sat in the shade of a white oak tree in the back yard of the three-bedroom Victorian cottage where he lived with his wife, Jennie, and their daughter, Anne Elizabeth, near the eastern end of Martha’s Vineyard. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in early June and the sun had risen brightly in the eastern sky, making the water of Nantucket Sound sparkle like miniature white Christmas lights.

He was half-way reading the newspaper and half-way falling asleep while Jennie was inside the cottage putting their three-year-old daughter Annie down for an afternoon nap.

When his head wasn’t nodding forward and he could keep his eyes open, Rob was scanning the headlines of the Vineyard Daily Packet, the local newspaper where he worked part-time as a columnist and correspondent. It had been three years since Rob and Jennie had used clues found in a time capsule to help solve a 40-year-old murder mystery in a small town in Maryland, then written a best-selling book about the case and moved to the Vineyard to relax, refresh and live off their royalty checks and savings until the next big thing came along.

Jennie had been researching local history looking for material for another book. She had loved being a reporter but a lot of newspapers were suffering hard times, shutting down or laying off, and with hundreds of journalists out of work, finding a job was not that easy. Even if she had gotten hired, there was no security in the profession any longer so keeping a job was even harder than finding one. Besides, writing the book with Rob’s contributions had really ignited her creative instincts, so she decided that was her best career opportunity. She had several ideas but hadn’t settled on one just yet.

* * *

Jennie emerged from the cottage wearing a pair of bright red yoga shorts, a white halter top and white Reeboks with no socks. Her long, wavy chestnut hair was tied up in a kind of pony tail held together with what looked like a pair of chopsticks. She was carrying a folder full of newspaper clippings under her arm while grasping two bottles of Blue Moon Belgian White Ale and two beer mugs with handles. Inside one of the mugs she had placed a small carving knife and half an orange.

“Hey sailor, buy you a drink?” she said to Rob. “I’ve got some free time on my hands and you look like a guy who could use a little snort.” She walked over to his chair, leaned down and snorted loudly right into his ear.

“Jesus, Jennie,” Rob said, jerking his head away and almost falling off his chair, which tipped precariously to one side. Then, seeing the beer, he asked, “How many of those have you had already?”

“Not quite enough,” she said.

Jennie sat down, placed the beers on a glass-topped table between her chair and Rob’s and poured them slowly against the sides of the glasses. She sliced through the orange and cut two good-sized wedges—one for her beer and one for Rob’s. She hooked one onto the lip of Rob’s mug and dropped the other one down into hers, then took a long drink.

“Nectar of the gods,” she said, smiling. “You’ve got to love those Belgians.”

“Especially the ones who live in Canada and work for Molson-Coors,” Rob said. “You should read a label some time. There is nothing Belgian about that beer except the name.”