Cape Time

By Edward Norton

A high-end resort on Cape Cod is the scene of a fire and explosion in the midst of summer season in vacationland. An insurance investigator sent to the site finds himself involved in the wreckage of the resort, as well as a missing child and a murder. CAPE TIME is part of a Cape Crime series by author Edward Norton. Two prequels are CAPE LIGHT, and OLD GOLD

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Norton
• Release date: Aug 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476245775

Edward Norton

Edward C. Norton, author of more than 10 novels, was an award-winning reporter/editor in New Jersey and New York. He was named a Nieman Fellow at Harvard University.Norton left daily journalism to write about public affairs and business issues for Mobil Corporation in op-ed ads in Time, The New York Times and Reader’s Digest. He retired as communications manager from Hoechst Celanese Corporation.As a free lance, Norton has had articles published in various magazines, including New York. and the first daily internet newspaper on Cape Cod. His novel, Station Breaks , was published by Dell [1986] and The House: 1916, [1999] was also published by RavensYard. His novels have been published under pen names, such as Adrian Manning, Lane Carlson, West Straits and Ted Neachtain.Norton can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

Cape Time

by

Edward Norton

Copyright 2013 by Edward Norton

Published by Creative Communications Services at Smashwords

Chapter 1

Laundry first

There are too many ways to kill. Pistol, knife, poison. The worst? Maybe by vehicle. But maybe the worst is by fire.

The weather fit my mood. The drive from Springfield was not pleasant in any weather. The old industrial city in mid New England had another one of those awful tenement fires the day before and the order from Boston was go check it out for the insurance policy. Was it arson, another form of creative destruction? Or was it the usual--bad wiring, cigarettes, or fatal child play. This one was the former. Overloaded circuits in the 1910 building. Four families in the three decker left homeless, and one 3-year-old girl dead in her bed.

That was hard to take when they brought her body out. Some of the young firemen wept. The older ones didn't. It wasn't their first fatal burn.

Nor mine, so I didn't weep for little Carmen. I did my job, checked with the state Fire Marshal and sent the report electronically to Boston. The landlord, some corporation in Boston, would get the insurance. It wasn't all that much, considering the building's age, and despite the tin siding, the place was a fire ball waiting to happen.

My job is to poke through ruins and find fault. And maybe save the insurance company in Hartford some money if possible by smoking out an arsonist or two. Arsonists came in all kinds, men mostly, but a few women who want pay back for a marriage gone wrong, or a bad business deal. Money is behind the crime, insurance money.

A hot summer rain splattered the windshield. I estimated I would make it back to New Madison in two hours, if the weather kept the vacationers at bay. The Camry's wipers smeared the dirty windshield before I hit the washer nob. I liked the Camry but I missed the Crown Vic I had for some years. It was big, imposing, fast and looked like a cop car. It was also very comfortable. The tranny went and it made no money sense to fix it when for a little more money I could get a used Camry. We all get used to things.

The Camry was suited up with BlueTooth and I carried a laptop and what I called my computer phone. It did everything but make lunch.

I was hungry, too, but not in the mood to pull off the highway to eat. I often feel that way after seeing a fatal fire.

The rain eased, and the wipers cleared the window when the phone rang. It was Elinor in Boston, the claims vice president, and a nice person. She put up with me, so she had to be a nice person. I work New England for her as an independent contractor, working about thirty hours a week for food and board, the latter being my double decker down in New Madison, the old sailing town on the water, where I moved after, well, after...

Got the report, Elinor said. Sad, the little girl.

No, not sad, tragic, I mumbled. To use a cliche, a fire trap.

No fire alarms? she asked.

Yeah, I said, But they forgot to change the batteries, god knows how long ago.

Well, I've got another job for you, out on the Cape. You probably heard about the big explosion at the Topsail resort. It's been all over the radio and TV.

No, I turned off the car radio yesterday on the way up. Couldn't take any more crazies killing victims and then cannibalizing them.

Eleanor let that comment go. Topsail blew up early yesterday. Seems like most of Massachusetts is blowing up these days, or burning down. Her mood matched mine.

So, we would like you to go over to the Cape...

'First, I go home and do some laundry."

OK, but get to the site today. I mumbled something and hung up.

But the laundry came first. I keep a satchel in the trunk with a change of clothes for all seasons, but tramping around the mud and debris of a fire means a change every day, if not sooner.

The traffic thinned out as I rolled toward New Madison. I hoped that Mrs. Kabral was not using the washer-dryer. Anna was my upstairs tenant and I let her use the machines because she was better than a security alarm at spotting trouble a city block away. She and her husband came with the place when I bought, and they were grateful I didn't kick them out and find a higher rent tenant. Her husband, Singh, worked for an internet provider and he was my computer guru as well.

When I unlocked my door and walked to the back I found I was in luck. Mrs. Kabral was either shopping or visiting a relative. I had the machines to myself. I dumped yesterday's clothes in the washer, then decided to chuck today's in as well. Wash and dry chinos, tube socks, and a polo shirt, and underwear. I wrapped a towel around my waist for fear that Mrs. Kabral would come down the back stairs and see me in my birthday suit.

I found a cold ginger ale in the fridge and opening it, wondered if it was too early to call Gloria. She was a cubicle manager at the university campus up the road, some one I met after we dug up her mother from a hasty grave and flushed her father from Florida. Sounds complicated, I know, and it was. Another arson, at a place called Old Gold, now turned into a retirement community for Boomers. We take it easy, as we both had been married, she to a loser, me to a winner. I decided it was too early. Gloria is a phone person, as most women are. I"m not.

I sat instead and flicked the local cable news channel and saw video of the Topsail explosion, taken from a hovering chopper. Something or someone, had blown almost half of the wing of this fancy resort on the water mid Cape.

With the summer season underway, this was not good news for its owners, investors and of course, the insurance company. The anchor went on to the next local disaster--the missing 3-year old,