THE COLD LAKE MURDERS
Chapter One
Trixie Belden studied herself in the bathroom mirror for several long moments, frowning at the image reflected back at her. The uniform fit. It was the right size and the cut was good, and yet, she couldn't help feeling that it didn't fit. It didn't matter that the mayor and town council were, at least on the public stage, behind the idea. The very notion of a twenty-five-year-old police chief was absurd. At any moment, she thought cynically, someone was going to jump out at her from behind a corner and inform her that she was the subject of a rather elaborate practical joke for some new reality television program.
Her frown deepened. Things would probably be easier if that were the case, except this was no joke. She'd been thrust into this new position and she knew there were many people watching and waiting to see how she handled the pressure. What she did now could greatly impact the rest of her career.
She exhaled slowly. All right. It was a test, but there was a single bright spot. She was only the acting chief. Her job was temporary. As soon as the council chose someone more appropriate for the position, she'd surrender the title and return to mere Detective Belden. And if she didn't make a complete disaster of things, then perhaps, somewhere later down the line, she could make a serious bid for chief once she'd genuinely earned it.
But for now she was left with the obvious, unanswered question. Why her? Surely it would have made more sense to give the job to any one of the several SHPD officers who had been on the job for longer than she could claim? She found it hard to believe that Chief Molinson had played an important role in seeing that she replaced him. Mayor Miller insisted it was the former chief's express recommendation that had resulted in her unexpected promotion, but it was strange to think that the man who had sometimes only grudgingly tolerated her presence in the SHPD while he was alive would have actively campaigned to see that she replaced him upon his death.
She grimaced and turned away. She'd spent too much time pondering her situation. It wouldn't exactly make a great impression if her first official act as the new police chief was to arrive late for the funeral of the last one. She stepped out into the hall to find most of the department assembled and waiting, all dressed as she was in their full, formal blues. The expressions on their faces ranged from nonplussed to openly resentful, with one notable exception. Sergeant Daniel Mangan's amused smirk was somehow a comforting reassurance against the undisguised hostility. His wink went even further to alleviate her nervousness.
She drew herself up and forced herself to meet the hard stares directed her way. “Shall we?” she asked coolly. With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward the frosted-glass doors at the back of the SHPD building. Outside, a hot sun in a cloudless sky beat down on the late morning, with waves of heat shimmering off the recently redone parking lot. Trixie stopped next to her green Jeep Cherokee, pressing the button on her key fob to unlock the doors.
“Hey,” Dan said, walking quickly to catch up to her. “You want me to drive?”
“How 'bout I drive and you ride along?” she suggested as she pulled open the driver's side door.
“Suit yourself.” Dan grinned at her again. “Chief.”
Sending Dan a quelling look, she turned to watch the other officers exiting the building. “Anyone else want to ride along?” she called out. She wasn't remotely surprised when no one else accepted her offer.
Dan's smile faded. “Don't let it bother you, Freckles,” he said grimly. “They're acting like total bastards, but they'll get over it eventually.”
“I'm hoping they won't have to get over it,” she confessed. “If the council can get its collective rear in gear and decide on a permanent replacement for the chief soon, I'll be off the hook.”
Dan opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “I don't know,” he said. “I mean, it's not like they didn't have months to do so already. We knew this day was coming as soon as the chief informed us the tumor was malign and inoperable.” He shot her a glance as she climbed behind the wheel and reached for her seat belt. “I'm not sure this isn't some plan of theirs to ease you into the role and then make it permanent once everyone's become accustomed to you in the position."
“That's... insane.”
“Not really. C'mon, Trixie. Maybe it's not easy for certain people to admit, but you are the best police officer this town has seen in... probably forever.”
She only just caught herself from rolling her eyes. “Dan, I'm not-”
“You have the highest arrest rate in the history of the department,” he reminded her, cutting off her protest.
“So?” she demanded as she turned the key in the ignition. “Being a police chief isn't really about being a good investigator. It's more leadership and politics than anything, and I wouldn't say I'm particularly strong in either of those things.”
“Don't sell yourself short. There's a reason you were co-president of the BWGs. And no, I'm not alluding to Mart telling everyone you got the position because you're bossy.”
Trixie snorted softly at his words. “Except he was always more right than wrong there. Unfortunately, while that was enough when we were kids, I don't think it's going to carry me very far now.”
“Give it a chance,” Dan suggested. “I think you might find out you were born for this job. Chief Molinson wanted you to take his place and he pressured the council to appoint you, because he believed in you. Well, assuming it wasn't the brain tumor affecting his thinking, anyway.”
For the first time in days, Trixie found herself laughing out loud. That would go a long way to explaining things!
The chapel at the Whispering Oaks Funeral Home was nearly full by the time the eleven officers of the SHPD made their way to the front of the room to take the pew reserved for them. They represented nearly the entire force, with only Officers Garza and Lindner absent, left behind to man the station in case of an emergency. Trixie felt conscious of all the eyes upon her, and knew she was the subject of intense curiosity. Murmurs echoed around her. Two days before, Mayor Miller had announced through the local news both the passing of long-time police chief Wendell Molinson and the appointment of his interim replacement. Her phone had rung within seconds of his official statement. Her mother was the first to get through. She'd spent the next two hours fielding calls from family, friends, reporters, and even a few odd cranks apparently unhappy with her elevation of position. Now it seemed half the town had turned out for the chief's funeral, and she sardonically wondered how many of them even knew or cared about the man and how many of them were there to see little Trixie Belden playing at being in charge. She refused to turn around and look at the gathered mourners, instead sitting painfully straight, eyes forward, as she waited for the service to begin. Several floral arrangements surrounded the closed casket, including the large wreath Trixie had ordered on behalf of the force.
The minister conducting the service spoke only briefly. Not having known the deceased, he was reduced to offering a short biography of the man before stepping aside and nodding in Trixie's direction. She sensed more than actually saw Dan's surprise as she rose and walked forward. She knew he hadn't expected she would be the one to deliver the eulogy, but who else would do it? The chief had no family and no very close friends. His work had literally been his life.
She drew in a deep breath before turning to face the room. In her pocket she carried the small card she'd used to outline her speech, but she realized she didn't need it. Having gone over it in her head so many times in the past twenty-four hours, she had the entire thing memorized. And she decided in that instant as she looked over the crowded room that she wouldn't say any of it. It was nothing more than empty words, platitudes written in the same generic and acceptable form as those just delivered by the hired pastor. But unlike the Reverend Wilkins, Trixie had known the Chief and she would speak now as the young woman who'd grown up under his watchful, often times stern and scolding, guidance.
“If the Chief was still with us today and standing next to me,” she began somewhat ruefully, “I suspect he'd say something like, 'Keep it short, Detective. No one wants to sit through some long-winded, emotional blubbering.' I think we all know the Chief's version of the KISS method of communication was spelled with only one 'S,' because he figured that additional letter was a waste of time better spent elsewhere. So, in his honor, I am going to keep this simple. He was a gruff man who hated the idea of showing his feelings, but that didn't mean he was absent of them. Wendell Molinson cared about this town and every single person living in it. His vigilance, dedication, and devotion never wavered. The best way we can honor his memory is by working together to continue safeguarding our community and by always looking out for one another. In this way, the Chief will live on in our hearts and never be forgotten. I know that's all he'd want and ask of us.”
She was surprised to find that tears were starting to gather. She hadn't thought this would be quite as difficult as it was proving to be, saying good-bye to the man who had been so instrumental, albeit often reluctantly so, in her chosen career path. She inhaled a somewhat shaky breath before continuing. “The Chief always liked to say life is nothing more than a series of choices we make, for good or for bad, and that a person's character is revealed less by his choices and more by how he handles the consequences of them... whether or not he is willing to accept personal responsibility for his actions. I think that made some people feel he was hard and uncompromising, but I believe just the opposite. He didn't judge people for making mistakes, ever. He only expected them to do whatever was necessary to either repair the damage or atone for the wrong, rather than run from the responsibility or rationalize bad choices away with excuse-making. It was a rare combination of the willingness to extend forgiveness without ever compromising integrity, and I think the world would be a much better place if we all not only lived the way the Chief wanted us to, but also the way he himself did. We have lost a mentor, a protector, and a great man. He will be sorely missed.”
She nodded once before returning to her seat. Dan regarded her oddly as she slipped into the pew, but he said nothing, returning his attention to Reverend Wilkins as the minister explained they would now be moving to the cemetery for the graveside portion of the service.
The remainder of the afternoon was a blur for Trixie. She spoke with dozens of people, some of whom congratulated her on her promotion, others who questioned it with distinct skepticism. Just as she was thinking she'd stayed at the public wake long enough to not offend anyone if she left, she found herself cornered by Paul Trent, investigative reporter for the Sleepyside Times.
“Well, now,” Trent said, eying her thoughtfully. “And here we have our new Acting Chief.”
“As always, Paul, your ability to state the obvious is a thing of beauty,” Trixie replied, a humorless smile curling up the corners of her lips.
“I understand from Councilman Hobart that Chief Molinson lobbied hard to have you replace him.”
“So I've been told.”
“And why is that?” Paul asked, his gaze sharpening.
“I have no idea,” Trixie answered truthfully. “I was just as surprised as everyone else.”
“So, you're claiming you weren't engaged in any sort of illicit or inappropriate relations with the Chief?”
Trixie supposed this line of questioning was meant to either shock her into some sort of confession or, at the very least, unsettle her enough to leave her on uneven footing where she revealed too much, but somehow she couldn't muster up enough emotion to feel anything more than mild amusement. “You're going to have to come up with something a lot more believable than that if you want to publish any kind of scathing exposé of the SHPD, Paul,” she told him evenly. “People can be gullible, but you'd stand a better chance of convincing the public that Town Hall is haunted by the ghost of Ben Franklin than you would in getting them to buy the idea that I've been named Acting Chief because of any sort of... illicit and inappropriate relationship with Chief Molinson.”
“We'll catch up later,” Paul said after a small hesitation. “I've got some questions for you, but they can wait.”
She stared at him, one brow raised, until he turned and walked away with a muttered, “I'll be calling you.” She had to give him some credit. It was clear he'd realized in that brief conversation that she wasn't going to be intimidated by any hard tactics and so he'd dropped the approach. She could only wonder what he'd try next.
She stopped only long enough to say her good-byes to a handful of people. Dan joined her outside the community center with undisguised relief.
“Everything all right?” Trixie asked as he glared at the passing traffic moving slowly along Harrison Avenue.
“Just glad it's over,” he told her. “Listen, Trix. You know I'm okay with this, right? It's all good.”
“This?” she echoed, confused by his question.
“You. Acting Chief. I've just spent hours getting asked over and over how I 'feel' about not being promoted and you getting the job instead.” Dan's expression revealed his disgust. “I swear some people were actually expecting me to trash talk you or something.”
Trixie looked down at the ground. “You'd have every right to,” she said quietly. “You should probably be furious with me.”
“Freckles, I adore you, you know. Love you to pieces. But sometimes? You can be a total idiot.”
Startled, she looked up at him.
“Yeah. You've stood by me, kept my secrets, kept me out of trouble. So I'm supposed to be 'furious' because you're Acting Chief now? What kind of ass would that make me, anyway?”
Trixie found herself chuckling ruefully. “Well,” she murmured, “when you put it like that.” She paused to offer him a small smile before continuing. “Thanks, Dan. Thanks for standing by me and keeping my secrets and especially keeping me out of trouble, too. And thanks for your support now. I don't know what I'd do without knowing I have at least one person on the force to back me up.”
“Hey. Like I said, they'll come around eventually.”
Trixie nodded, though she still remained doubtful. She pulled her keys from her purse. “You want me to drop you off at the station so you can get your car?” she asked.
He shot her a crooked grin and gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “I think I can manage to walk the half-block without collapsing. Go home, Trix. There's nothing else you have to do today.”
“Yeah. I really want to get out of this horrid uniform.”
“Aw. But it looks so good on you, Freckles.”
“Uh, huh. Just remember before you make any cracks about strippers and bachelor parties that at least for now, I am your boss.”
Dan held up both hands, laughing. “Wouldn't dream of it, Chief.” With that, he strolled off, heading toward the light at 4th Street so he could cross over to the SHPD station and pick up his Mustang.
Trixie lived in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sleepyside, just off the main square in a five-bedroom Victorian monstrosity she'd unexpectedly inherited from her childless great-aunt Felicity some three years before. It had always been too much space for Felicity, the last of her branch of the extended and far-flung Belden family, and it was certainly too much for Trixie, but the location was excellent, within minutes of the SHPD station, and she felt somehow obligated to live in the house Felicity had wanted her to have. She'd done nothing in terms of redecorating since moving in. The windows were still adorned with the same lace curtains and the parlor overstuffed with the same French antiques that had been there for as long as Trixie could remember.
As she pulled into the drive and stared up at the rambling structure, she was struck by an odd sense of déjà vu. Felicity had passed away peacefully in old age, leaving Trixie her beloved home as a complete surprise to the entire Belden family. What did a then twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate need with a house like this?
And now here she was again, the inexplicable beneficiary of someone's death. If she didn't know any better, she'd have suspected she was the focus of a vast conspiracy of well-meaning elders who felt they needed to force responsibility on her or else she would never bother to grow up on her own.
“Acting Chief Trixie Belden?” a voice asked as she slid out of her Cherokee and reached for her handbag.
“Yes?” She turned to see a short, balding man of indeterminate age standing in her driveway. He was well-dressed in a dark suit and tie and carried in one hand a large, yellow envelope. In the other, he held a leather satchel.
He held out the envelope. “This is for you,” he said.
Trixie blinked. “Are you about to tell me I'm being served?”
The stranger smiled slightly. “No, ma'am. I was instructed to give you this by your predecessor, upon the day of his funeral.”
Slowly, Trixie accepted the proffered envelope. She could see her name scrawled across it in the Chief's distinctive and generally illegible handwriting.
“I've been told to say the following...” the man continued. “You are cautioned to refrain from disclosing any and all contents to the members of the Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson police force, barring the one person you can trust implicitly without question. Chief Molinson assured me you would know of whom he spoke.”
Trixie frowned severely. “Why? What's this all about?”
“I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea, ma'am. I'm only the delivery boy.” He bobbed his head in a small salute and turned and strolled calmly away.
Trixie watched as the man disappeared into the growing gloom of twilight. She let herself into her house through the side door that opened into a narrow mudroom off the kitchen. She set the envelope down on the counter and crossed to her refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of pineapple-orange juice. She poured about a cup's worth into a glass she snatched up from her draining board, and then added a few cubes of ice. For several long moments, she sipped her drink and stared at the envelope, feeling a strange mixture of curiosity and apprehension she couldn't really explain. Finally, she fished her cell phone from her purse.
“You need to get over here as fast as possible,” she told Dan as soon as he answered her call. “I have something I think you're going to want to see.”
“I literally just got home,” Dan replied. “Can I at least change clothes before I drive back into town? And what do you mean you have something I'll want to see?”
“Yes, you can change clothes. I'll explain the rest when you get here.”
When Dan arrived a little under thirty minutes later, Trixie had already changed into an old t-shirt and jeans. “You okay?” he asked in concern as he took in her tired appearance. “Today kinda sucked.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I'm fine. Are you hungry? I can heat something up.”
“Nah. I'm good. The council did themselves proud with the spread they put out at the community center. I wasn't expecting such a banquet for the Chief's wake.” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “So... what gives?”
Trixie picked up the large envelope from the corner of the counter and joined him at the table. “There was a man waiting for me when I got home this evening.”
Dan huffed out a breath and scowled. He'd never much liked the thought of Trixie living alone in this old house with far too many ways for someone to easily break in. He liked even less the idea that someone had been standing in wait for her. “What man? What did he want?”
“I don't know who he was, actually. I think he's probably some kind of lawyer. He didn't give his name and I didn't bother asking. I got the impression he wouldn't have said even if I'd pressed him. As for what he wanted, it was to give me this.” She placed the envelope on the table in front of him. “It's from the Chief.”
Dan's eyes tracked from the envelope to Trixie and back again. “What's in it?” he asked after a long moment.
“I don't know. I decided to wait for you before opening it. The man stated specifically that I was to keep whatever's in here a secret from everyone on the force but you.”
“Me?” Dan said in genuine surprise. “He mentioned me?”
“Well, he said the Chief told me to only tell the one person on the force I could trust no matter what, and that I'd know who he meant. Of course that's you.”
“And you have no idea what's in it?”
“None.” Trixie reached for the envelope. She tore it open across the top and pulled out a small sheaf of papers, including several yellowed newspaper clippings.
Dan picked up a folded note that fell off the top of the stack and landed face-down on one of the pink floral place mats.
“This is about the killings at Cold Lake,” Trixie said as she studied an old police report. “Why would he send me this?”
“The killings at Cold Lake?”
“Yeah. You know, back in the 70s? Jennifer Timmons and Lucinda Jackson?”
“If it happened in the 70s, it was before my time,” Dan pointed out with a quick grin.
“Ha. Mine, too, but I thought everyone in Sleepyside at least knew the story. I can't believe you've lived here as long as you have and never heard anything about it.”
“So it's some great, unsolved mystery then? A cold case?”
“No. That's the thing. It isn't. There really isn't much to tell. The town was in the middle of the Fourth of July celebrations for the Bicentennial. Jennifer and Lucinda were eighth grade girls. Best friends. Their parents lost track of them during the parade, but they weren't alarmed right away. Apparently there were a lot of kids running around all over the place between the parade and the fair, and they'd assumed the girls were off having a good time with some of their other friends. It wasn't until early evening that they became concerned. There was a massive manhunt that lasted almost three days, until the girls were found in an empty cabin at the Cold Lake Campground. They'd been strangled to death.”
“Strangled? Had they been molested, too?” Dan asked quietly.
“No. There wasn't any indication of an assault of that kind. They had some minor defensive wounds, so they'd struggled with their captor, but that was it. A few days later, an itinerant farm worker named Morton Grody was arrested for the murders. He'd been seen around the campground the previous weekend and a search of his rucksack turned out Jennifer's diary and a hair clip Lucinda's parents identified. He was convicted and sent down to Sing Sing. He died there, uh... about sixteen or seventeen years ago now, I think.”
Trixie glanced at one of the newspaper clippings. It detailed the discovery of the bodies. “I don't understand why the chief would want me to look at all this.”
“Maybe this will explain it?” Dan suggested, holding out the note he'd picked up.
Trixie took the folded paper and opened it. “Terrific,” she mumbled. “He hand-wrote it. Of course he hand-wrote it. This may take some work to decipher.”
“You want me to try?” Dan offered.
“Sure. You were always better at reading his writing than I ever was.” She handed the note back to him.
“Maybe it's a guy thing. Uh... okay, so....Detective Belden, there's not much time for me left and so a task I would have undertaken myself must now fall to you. After the doctors told me about my terminal condition, I knew I needed to get my affairs in order. I looked up some old friends and colleagues for one last visit. This included my former partner and mentor, Hal Derring, a current resident of the Golden Life Center convalescent home. Derring is not long for this world himself and he confessed something to me I'd long suspected. Grody was innocent. The evidence found on his person was planted by Derring and another officer, Micky McClain. Derring says this was done with the blessing of Chief Moran and several others knew about it, including the prosecuting attorney. This travesty of justice must be righted, and I know you'll be the one to see it through. Be careful. If what Derring claims is true, there are people around today who could be ruined by this, and there may still be a killer on the loose. Good luck.”
“Oh, crap,” Trixie exclaimed softly. “I sure wasn't expecting this.”
“Corruption on the force? Even if it was a long time ago? Yeah. I wasn't expecting that, either.”
“Dan...” Trixie said slowly, her frown pronounced. “The prosecuting attorney for this case? It was John Nathan Cleary.”
“John Cleary?” Dan said, surprised. “You don't mean Senator Cleary, do you?”
“Yeah. I do. This is how he first made a name for himself. Shortly after getting the conviction, he ran for election as a state representative.”
“And now he's a wealthy and powerful state senator,” Dan mused. “Trixie, this could be very bad. Very bad and very dangerous. Maybe... maybe you should let all this go?”
“If what the Chief is saying is true, an innocent man went to jail and died there for murders he didn't commit.”
“I know. But you can't undo that. I'm more worried about what could happen to you than trying to clear this Martin Grody's name.”
“Morton,” Trixie corrected absently, her attention now on a photocopy of the autopsy report for Lucinda Jackson. “He was Morton Grody. When we were kids, Mart used to get teased about it sometimes and he was always telling people the difference.”
“I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I.”
He didn't say it like a question, so Trixie didn't bother to directly respond. “This is interesting,” she said instead. “According to the autopsy on Lucinda, while there was no evidence she'd been assaulted by her killer, the M.E. noted that she showed some signs consistent with long-term physical abuse. I doubt anyone ever investigated that any further.”
Before Dan could reply, they were interrupted by the beeping of Trixie's cell phone. She picked it up, frowned slightly at the caller ID, and answered it. “This is Detect- uh, Acting Chief Belden.”
“Chief, this is Lizzy. We just got a call from Captain Grieg. There's a fire out at the self-storage units on Route 6 and he suspects arson. Who do you want me to send?”
Trixie ran a hand through her hair, causing further disarray to her seemingly untameable long curls. “Ugh. It's been a rough day for everybody, Lizzy. I'll go.”
“You should take back-up, dear. Just in case. I know the fire department's already there and that Captain Grieg seems like a capable fellow, but it would be better if you didn't go out there alone.”
Trixie had to smile at the term of endearment and protective attitude Lizzy always displayed. Lizzy Johnson was a second cousin on Trixie's mother's side of the family. Only a year and a half older than Helen Belden, the two women had grown up together as good friends. Although Lizzy had always respected the general protocol of working relationships, there was never any doubt that to her, Trixie was first and foremost, family.
“I'll drag Sergeant Mangan along with me,” she assured the night dispatcher. “And tomorrow we'll get together and set up a new rotation list so you'll always know who's on call.”
“I'd appreciate that, Chief.”
Dan stood and stretched both arms over his head. “So where are we going?” he asked as soon as Trixie disconnected the call.
“You know those storage units out by the Greyson farm? They're on fire. Jakob Grieg called the station because he thinks it might be arson. We'll go check it out and if we need, we can contact the Poughkeepsie fire department and request their arson investigator.”
Dan shook his head, chuckling quietly.
“There something funny about arson, Dan?” Trixie demanded, eyes narrowed as she regarded him sternly.
“No. I was just thinking only you would start your first day as the new Chief of Police with a funeral for the former chief, follow it up with a bombshell about corruption and murder, and then throw a possible case of arson into the mix. You're literally going through a trial by fire, Trix."
Her frown deepened. Things would probably be easier if that were the case, except this was no joke. She'd been thrust into this new position and she knew there were many people watching and waiting to see how she handled the pressure. What she did now could greatly impact the rest of her career.
She exhaled slowly. All right. It was a test, but there was a single bright spot. She was only the acting chief. Her job was temporary. As soon as the council chose someone more appropriate for the position, she'd surrender the title and return to mere Detective Belden. And if she didn't make a complete disaster of things, then perhaps, somewhere later down the line, she could make a serious bid for chief once she'd genuinely earned it.
But for now she was left with the obvious, unanswered question. Why her? Surely it would have made more sense to give the job to any one of the several SHPD officers who had been on the job for longer than she could claim? She found it hard to believe that Chief Molinson had played an important role in seeing that she replaced him. Mayor Miller insisted it was the former chief's express recommendation that had resulted in her unexpected promotion, but it was strange to think that the man who had sometimes only grudgingly tolerated her presence in the SHPD while he was alive would have actively campaigned to see that she replaced him upon his death.
She grimaced and turned away. She'd spent too much time pondering her situation. It wouldn't exactly make a great impression if her first official act as the new police chief was to arrive late for the funeral of the last one. She stepped out into the hall to find most of the department assembled and waiting, all dressed as she was in their full, formal blues. The expressions on their faces ranged from nonplussed to openly resentful, with one notable exception. Sergeant Daniel Mangan's amused smirk was somehow a comforting reassurance against the undisguised hostility. His wink went even further to alleviate her nervousness.
She drew herself up and forced herself to meet the hard stares directed her way. “Shall we?” she asked coolly. With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward the frosted-glass doors at the back of the SHPD building. Outside, a hot sun in a cloudless sky beat down on the late morning, with waves of heat shimmering off the recently redone parking lot. Trixie stopped next to her green Jeep Cherokee, pressing the button on her key fob to unlock the doors.
“Hey,” Dan said, walking quickly to catch up to her. “You want me to drive?”
“How 'bout I drive and you ride along?” she suggested as she pulled open the driver's side door.
“Suit yourself.” Dan grinned at her again. “Chief.”
Sending Dan a quelling look, she turned to watch the other officers exiting the building. “Anyone else want to ride along?” she called out. She wasn't remotely surprised when no one else accepted her offer.
Dan's smile faded. “Don't let it bother you, Freckles,” he said grimly. “They're acting like total bastards, but they'll get over it eventually.”
“I'm hoping they won't have to get over it,” she confessed. “If the council can get its collective rear in gear and decide on a permanent replacement for the chief soon, I'll be off the hook.”
Dan opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “I don't know,” he said. “I mean, it's not like they didn't have months to do so already. We knew this day was coming as soon as the chief informed us the tumor was malign and inoperable.” He shot her a glance as she climbed behind the wheel and reached for her seat belt. “I'm not sure this isn't some plan of theirs to ease you into the role and then make it permanent once everyone's become accustomed to you in the position."
“That's... insane.”
“Not really. C'mon, Trixie. Maybe it's not easy for certain people to admit, but you are the best police officer this town has seen in... probably forever.”
She only just caught herself from rolling her eyes. “Dan, I'm not-”
“You have the highest arrest rate in the history of the department,” he reminded her, cutting off her protest.
“So?” she demanded as she turned the key in the ignition. “Being a police chief isn't really about being a good investigator. It's more leadership and politics than anything, and I wouldn't say I'm particularly strong in either of those things.”
“Don't sell yourself short. There's a reason you were co-president of the BWGs. And no, I'm not alluding to Mart telling everyone you got the position because you're bossy.”
Trixie snorted softly at his words. “Except he was always more right than wrong there. Unfortunately, while that was enough when we were kids, I don't think it's going to carry me very far now.”
“Give it a chance,” Dan suggested. “I think you might find out you were born for this job. Chief Molinson wanted you to take his place and he pressured the council to appoint you, because he believed in you. Well, assuming it wasn't the brain tumor affecting his thinking, anyway.”
For the first time in days, Trixie found herself laughing out loud. That would go a long way to explaining things!
The chapel at the Whispering Oaks Funeral Home was nearly full by the time the eleven officers of the SHPD made their way to the front of the room to take the pew reserved for them. They represented nearly the entire force, with only Officers Garza and Lindner absent, left behind to man the station in case of an emergency. Trixie felt conscious of all the eyes upon her, and knew she was the subject of intense curiosity. Murmurs echoed around her. Two days before, Mayor Miller had announced through the local news both the passing of long-time police chief Wendell Molinson and the appointment of his interim replacement. Her phone had rung within seconds of his official statement. Her mother was the first to get through. She'd spent the next two hours fielding calls from family, friends, reporters, and even a few odd cranks apparently unhappy with her elevation of position. Now it seemed half the town had turned out for the chief's funeral, and she sardonically wondered how many of them even knew or cared about the man and how many of them were there to see little Trixie Belden playing at being in charge. She refused to turn around and look at the gathered mourners, instead sitting painfully straight, eyes forward, as she waited for the service to begin. Several floral arrangements surrounded the closed casket, including the large wreath Trixie had ordered on behalf of the force.
The minister conducting the service spoke only briefly. Not having known the deceased, he was reduced to offering a short biography of the man before stepping aside and nodding in Trixie's direction. She sensed more than actually saw Dan's surprise as she rose and walked forward. She knew he hadn't expected she would be the one to deliver the eulogy, but who else would do it? The chief had no family and no very close friends. His work had literally been his life.
She drew in a deep breath before turning to face the room. In her pocket she carried the small card she'd used to outline her speech, but she realized she didn't need it. Having gone over it in her head so many times in the past twenty-four hours, she had the entire thing memorized. And she decided in that instant as she looked over the crowded room that she wouldn't say any of it. It was nothing more than empty words, platitudes written in the same generic and acceptable form as those just delivered by the hired pastor. But unlike the Reverend Wilkins, Trixie had known the Chief and she would speak now as the young woman who'd grown up under his watchful, often times stern and scolding, guidance.
“If the Chief was still with us today and standing next to me,” she began somewhat ruefully, “I suspect he'd say something like, 'Keep it short, Detective. No one wants to sit through some long-winded, emotional blubbering.' I think we all know the Chief's version of the KISS method of communication was spelled with only one 'S,' because he figured that additional letter was a waste of time better spent elsewhere. So, in his honor, I am going to keep this simple. He was a gruff man who hated the idea of showing his feelings, but that didn't mean he was absent of them. Wendell Molinson cared about this town and every single person living in it. His vigilance, dedication, and devotion never wavered. The best way we can honor his memory is by working together to continue safeguarding our community and by always looking out for one another. In this way, the Chief will live on in our hearts and never be forgotten. I know that's all he'd want and ask of us.”
She was surprised to find that tears were starting to gather. She hadn't thought this would be quite as difficult as it was proving to be, saying good-bye to the man who had been so instrumental, albeit often reluctantly so, in her chosen career path. She inhaled a somewhat shaky breath before continuing. “The Chief always liked to say life is nothing more than a series of choices we make, for good or for bad, and that a person's character is revealed less by his choices and more by how he handles the consequences of them... whether or not he is willing to accept personal responsibility for his actions. I think that made some people feel he was hard and uncompromising, but I believe just the opposite. He didn't judge people for making mistakes, ever. He only expected them to do whatever was necessary to either repair the damage or atone for the wrong, rather than run from the responsibility or rationalize bad choices away with excuse-making. It was a rare combination of the willingness to extend forgiveness without ever compromising integrity, and I think the world would be a much better place if we all not only lived the way the Chief wanted us to, but also the way he himself did. We have lost a mentor, a protector, and a great man. He will be sorely missed.”
She nodded once before returning to her seat. Dan regarded her oddly as she slipped into the pew, but he said nothing, returning his attention to Reverend Wilkins as the minister explained they would now be moving to the cemetery for the graveside portion of the service.
The remainder of the afternoon was a blur for Trixie. She spoke with dozens of people, some of whom congratulated her on her promotion, others who questioned it with distinct skepticism. Just as she was thinking she'd stayed at the public wake long enough to not offend anyone if she left, she found herself cornered by Paul Trent, investigative reporter for the Sleepyside Times.
“Well, now,” Trent said, eying her thoughtfully. “And here we have our new Acting Chief.”
“As always, Paul, your ability to state the obvious is a thing of beauty,” Trixie replied, a humorless smile curling up the corners of her lips.
“I understand from Councilman Hobart that Chief Molinson lobbied hard to have you replace him.”
“So I've been told.”
“And why is that?” Paul asked, his gaze sharpening.
“I have no idea,” Trixie answered truthfully. “I was just as surprised as everyone else.”
“So, you're claiming you weren't engaged in any sort of illicit or inappropriate relations with the Chief?”
Trixie supposed this line of questioning was meant to either shock her into some sort of confession or, at the very least, unsettle her enough to leave her on uneven footing where she revealed too much, but somehow she couldn't muster up enough emotion to feel anything more than mild amusement. “You're going to have to come up with something a lot more believable than that if you want to publish any kind of scathing exposé of the SHPD, Paul,” she told him evenly. “People can be gullible, but you'd stand a better chance of convincing the public that Town Hall is haunted by the ghost of Ben Franklin than you would in getting them to buy the idea that I've been named Acting Chief because of any sort of... illicit and inappropriate relationship with Chief Molinson.”
“We'll catch up later,” Paul said after a small hesitation. “I've got some questions for you, but they can wait.”
She stared at him, one brow raised, until he turned and walked away with a muttered, “I'll be calling you.” She had to give him some credit. It was clear he'd realized in that brief conversation that she wasn't going to be intimidated by any hard tactics and so he'd dropped the approach. She could only wonder what he'd try next.
She stopped only long enough to say her good-byes to a handful of people. Dan joined her outside the community center with undisguised relief.
“Everything all right?” Trixie asked as he glared at the passing traffic moving slowly along Harrison Avenue.
“Just glad it's over,” he told her. “Listen, Trix. You know I'm okay with this, right? It's all good.”
“This?” she echoed, confused by his question.
“You. Acting Chief. I've just spent hours getting asked over and over how I 'feel' about not being promoted and you getting the job instead.” Dan's expression revealed his disgust. “I swear some people were actually expecting me to trash talk you or something.”
Trixie looked down at the ground. “You'd have every right to,” she said quietly. “You should probably be furious with me.”
“Freckles, I adore you, you know. Love you to pieces. But sometimes? You can be a total idiot.”
Startled, she looked up at him.
“Yeah. You've stood by me, kept my secrets, kept me out of trouble. So I'm supposed to be 'furious' because you're Acting Chief now? What kind of ass would that make me, anyway?”
Trixie found herself chuckling ruefully. “Well,” she murmured, “when you put it like that.” She paused to offer him a small smile before continuing. “Thanks, Dan. Thanks for standing by me and keeping my secrets and especially keeping me out of trouble, too. And thanks for your support now. I don't know what I'd do without knowing I have at least one person on the force to back me up.”
“Hey. Like I said, they'll come around eventually.”
Trixie nodded, though she still remained doubtful. She pulled her keys from her purse. “You want me to drop you off at the station so you can get your car?” she asked.
He shot her a crooked grin and gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “I think I can manage to walk the half-block without collapsing. Go home, Trix. There's nothing else you have to do today.”
“Yeah. I really want to get out of this horrid uniform.”
“Aw. But it looks so good on you, Freckles.”
“Uh, huh. Just remember before you make any cracks about strippers and bachelor parties that at least for now, I am your boss.”
Dan held up both hands, laughing. “Wouldn't dream of it, Chief.” With that, he strolled off, heading toward the light at 4th Street so he could cross over to the SHPD station and pick up his Mustang.
Trixie lived in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sleepyside, just off the main square in a five-bedroom Victorian monstrosity she'd unexpectedly inherited from her childless great-aunt Felicity some three years before. It had always been too much space for Felicity, the last of her branch of the extended and far-flung Belden family, and it was certainly too much for Trixie, but the location was excellent, within minutes of the SHPD station, and she felt somehow obligated to live in the house Felicity had wanted her to have. She'd done nothing in terms of redecorating since moving in. The windows were still adorned with the same lace curtains and the parlor overstuffed with the same French antiques that had been there for as long as Trixie could remember.
As she pulled into the drive and stared up at the rambling structure, she was struck by an odd sense of déjà vu. Felicity had passed away peacefully in old age, leaving Trixie her beloved home as a complete surprise to the entire Belden family. What did a then twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate need with a house like this?
And now here she was again, the inexplicable beneficiary of someone's death. If she didn't know any better, she'd have suspected she was the focus of a vast conspiracy of well-meaning elders who felt they needed to force responsibility on her or else she would never bother to grow up on her own.
“Acting Chief Trixie Belden?” a voice asked as she slid out of her Cherokee and reached for her handbag.
“Yes?” She turned to see a short, balding man of indeterminate age standing in her driveway. He was well-dressed in a dark suit and tie and carried in one hand a large, yellow envelope. In the other, he held a leather satchel.
He held out the envelope. “This is for you,” he said.
Trixie blinked. “Are you about to tell me I'm being served?”
The stranger smiled slightly. “No, ma'am. I was instructed to give you this by your predecessor, upon the day of his funeral.”
Slowly, Trixie accepted the proffered envelope. She could see her name scrawled across it in the Chief's distinctive and generally illegible handwriting.
“I've been told to say the following...” the man continued. “You are cautioned to refrain from disclosing any and all contents to the members of the Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson police force, barring the one person you can trust implicitly without question. Chief Molinson assured me you would know of whom he spoke.”
Trixie frowned severely. “Why? What's this all about?”
“I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea, ma'am. I'm only the delivery boy.” He bobbed his head in a small salute and turned and strolled calmly away.
Trixie watched as the man disappeared into the growing gloom of twilight. She let herself into her house through the side door that opened into a narrow mudroom off the kitchen. She set the envelope down on the counter and crossed to her refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of pineapple-orange juice. She poured about a cup's worth into a glass she snatched up from her draining board, and then added a few cubes of ice. For several long moments, she sipped her drink and stared at the envelope, feeling a strange mixture of curiosity and apprehension she couldn't really explain. Finally, she fished her cell phone from her purse.
“You need to get over here as fast as possible,” she told Dan as soon as he answered her call. “I have something I think you're going to want to see.”
“I literally just got home,” Dan replied. “Can I at least change clothes before I drive back into town? And what do you mean you have something I'll want to see?”
“Yes, you can change clothes. I'll explain the rest when you get here.”
When Dan arrived a little under thirty minutes later, Trixie had already changed into an old t-shirt and jeans. “You okay?” he asked in concern as he took in her tired appearance. “Today kinda sucked.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I'm fine. Are you hungry? I can heat something up.”
“Nah. I'm good. The council did themselves proud with the spread they put out at the community center. I wasn't expecting such a banquet for the Chief's wake.” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “So... what gives?”
Trixie picked up the large envelope from the corner of the counter and joined him at the table. “There was a man waiting for me when I got home this evening.”
Dan huffed out a breath and scowled. He'd never much liked the thought of Trixie living alone in this old house with far too many ways for someone to easily break in. He liked even less the idea that someone had been standing in wait for her. “What man? What did he want?”
“I don't know who he was, actually. I think he's probably some kind of lawyer. He didn't give his name and I didn't bother asking. I got the impression he wouldn't have said even if I'd pressed him. As for what he wanted, it was to give me this.” She placed the envelope on the table in front of him. “It's from the Chief.”
Dan's eyes tracked from the envelope to Trixie and back again. “What's in it?” he asked after a long moment.
“I don't know. I decided to wait for you before opening it. The man stated specifically that I was to keep whatever's in here a secret from everyone on the force but you.”
“Me?” Dan said in genuine surprise. “He mentioned me?”
“Well, he said the Chief told me to only tell the one person on the force I could trust no matter what, and that I'd know who he meant. Of course that's you.”
“And you have no idea what's in it?”
“None.” Trixie reached for the envelope. She tore it open across the top and pulled out a small sheaf of papers, including several yellowed newspaper clippings.
Dan picked up a folded note that fell off the top of the stack and landed face-down on one of the pink floral place mats.
“This is about the killings at Cold Lake,” Trixie said as she studied an old police report. “Why would he send me this?”
“The killings at Cold Lake?”
“Yeah. You know, back in the 70s? Jennifer Timmons and Lucinda Jackson?”
“If it happened in the 70s, it was before my time,” Dan pointed out with a quick grin.
“Ha. Mine, too, but I thought everyone in Sleepyside at least knew the story. I can't believe you've lived here as long as you have and never heard anything about it.”
“So it's some great, unsolved mystery then? A cold case?”
“No. That's the thing. It isn't. There really isn't much to tell. The town was in the middle of the Fourth of July celebrations for the Bicentennial. Jennifer and Lucinda were eighth grade girls. Best friends. Their parents lost track of them during the parade, but they weren't alarmed right away. Apparently there were a lot of kids running around all over the place between the parade and the fair, and they'd assumed the girls were off having a good time with some of their other friends. It wasn't until early evening that they became concerned. There was a massive manhunt that lasted almost three days, until the girls were found in an empty cabin at the Cold Lake Campground. They'd been strangled to death.”
“Strangled? Had they been molested, too?” Dan asked quietly.
“No. There wasn't any indication of an assault of that kind. They had some minor defensive wounds, so they'd struggled with their captor, but that was it. A few days later, an itinerant farm worker named Morton Grody was arrested for the murders. He'd been seen around the campground the previous weekend and a search of his rucksack turned out Jennifer's diary and a hair clip Lucinda's parents identified. He was convicted and sent down to Sing Sing. He died there, uh... about sixteen or seventeen years ago now, I think.”
Trixie glanced at one of the newspaper clippings. It detailed the discovery of the bodies. “I don't understand why the chief would want me to look at all this.”
“Maybe this will explain it?” Dan suggested, holding out the note he'd picked up.
Trixie took the folded paper and opened it. “Terrific,” she mumbled. “He hand-wrote it. Of course he hand-wrote it. This may take some work to decipher.”
“You want me to try?” Dan offered.
“Sure. You were always better at reading his writing than I ever was.” She handed the note back to him.
“Maybe it's a guy thing. Uh... okay, so....Detective Belden, there's not much time for me left and so a task I would have undertaken myself must now fall to you. After the doctors told me about my terminal condition, I knew I needed to get my affairs in order. I looked up some old friends and colleagues for one last visit. This included my former partner and mentor, Hal Derring, a current resident of the Golden Life Center convalescent home. Derring is not long for this world himself and he confessed something to me I'd long suspected. Grody was innocent. The evidence found on his person was planted by Derring and another officer, Micky McClain. Derring says this was done with the blessing of Chief Moran and several others knew about it, including the prosecuting attorney. This travesty of justice must be righted, and I know you'll be the one to see it through. Be careful. If what Derring claims is true, there are people around today who could be ruined by this, and there may still be a killer on the loose. Good luck.”
“Oh, crap,” Trixie exclaimed softly. “I sure wasn't expecting this.”
“Corruption on the force? Even if it was a long time ago? Yeah. I wasn't expecting that, either.”
“Dan...” Trixie said slowly, her frown pronounced. “The prosecuting attorney for this case? It was John Nathan Cleary.”
“John Cleary?” Dan said, surprised. “You don't mean Senator Cleary, do you?”
“Yeah. I do. This is how he first made a name for himself. Shortly after getting the conviction, he ran for election as a state representative.”
“And now he's a wealthy and powerful state senator,” Dan mused. “Trixie, this could be very bad. Very bad and very dangerous. Maybe... maybe you should let all this go?”
“If what the Chief is saying is true, an innocent man went to jail and died there for murders he didn't commit.”
“I know. But you can't undo that. I'm more worried about what could happen to you than trying to clear this Martin Grody's name.”
“Morton,” Trixie corrected absently, her attention now on a photocopy of the autopsy report for Lucinda Jackson. “He was Morton Grody. When we were kids, Mart used to get teased about it sometimes and he was always telling people the difference.”
“I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I.”
He didn't say it like a question, so Trixie didn't bother to directly respond. “This is interesting,” she said instead. “According to the autopsy on Lucinda, while there was no evidence she'd been assaulted by her killer, the M.E. noted that she showed some signs consistent with long-term physical abuse. I doubt anyone ever investigated that any further.”
Before Dan could reply, they were interrupted by the beeping of Trixie's cell phone. She picked it up, frowned slightly at the caller ID, and answered it. “This is Detect- uh, Acting Chief Belden.”
“Chief, this is Lizzy. We just got a call from Captain Grieg. There's a fire out at the self-storage units on Route 6 and he suspects arson. Who do you want me to send?”
Trixie ran a hand through her hair, causing further disarray to her seemingly untameable long curls. “Ugh. It's been a rough day for everybody, Lizzy. I'll go.”
“You should take back-up, dear. Just in case. I know the fire department's already there and that Captain Grieg seems like a capable fellow, but it would be better if you didn't go out there alone.”
Trixie had to smile at the term of endearment and protective attitude Lizzy always displayed. Lizzy Johnson was a second cousin on Trixie's mother's side of the family. Only a year and a half older than Helen Belden, the two women had grown up together as good friends. Although Lizzy had always respected the general protocol of working relationships, there was never any doubt that to her, Trixie was first and foremost, family.
“I'll drag Sergeant Mangan along with me,” she assured the night dispatcher. “And tomorrow we'll get together and set up a new rotation list so you'll always know who's on call.”
“I'd appreciate that, Chief.”
Dan stood and stretched both arms over his head. “So where are we going?” he asked as soon as Trixie disconnected the call.
“You know those storage units out by the Greyson farm? They're on fire. Jakob Grieg called the station because he thinks it might be arson. We'll go check it out and if we need, we can contact the Poughkeepsie fire department and request their arson investigator.”
Dan shook his head, chuckling quietly.
“There something funny about arson, Dan?” Trixie demanded, eyes narrowed as she regarded him sternly.
“No. I was just thinking only you would start your first day as the new Chief of Police with a funeral for the former chief, follow it up with a bombshell about corruption and murder, and then throw a possible case of arson into the mix. You're literally going through a trial by fire, Trix."