Broken Promises: A Matt Davis Mystery

By Joe Perrone Jr.

When the body of Maggie McFarland, an 86-year old widow, is found among the rubble of the once-famous, landmark Artemis Hotel leveled by fire nearly seventy years ago, residents of Roscoe are shocked. However, it is not the location where Maggie is found, but rather the manner of her demise, that has everyone puzzled. For it isn't a heart attack that has felled her; nor has she suffered a stroke, or taken a fatal fall from a porch. Her life has not ended that peacefully. Maggie has been killed by a bullet to the heart, fired from a pistol at close range. Who would possibly want to kill this kind, gentle woman, known throughout the area as one of the best trout fly tiers within a hundred miles of the famed Beaverkill River? That is the mystery that confronts Matt Davis in Broken Promises, in one of the most baffling cases of his career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Perrone Jr.
• Release date: Aug 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301550739

Joe Perrone Jr.

Joe Perrone Jr is an author whose diverse background includes a stint as a sports writer with a prominent New Jersey newspaper, the Herald News, and several years spent freelancing as an advertising copy writer.  He also has had short stories published in the Mid-Atlantic Fly Fishing Guide. In addition to his writing, he spent ten years as a professional fly fishing guide on the historic Beaverkill River in New York's Catskill Mountains.  Nearby Roscoe, known as “Trout Town USA," serves as the setting for Joe's last four Matt Davis Mysteries: Opening Day, Twice Bitten, Broken Promises, and Deadly Ransom.  Roscoe is a place to which Joe returns as often as possible to fish his favorite waters and visit with long-time friends.  The first book in the series, As the Twig is Bent, is set in Manhattan. Joe has also authored two non-fiction books, Gone Fishin’ with Kids (How to Take Your Kid Fishing And Still Be Friends)and A “Real” Man’s Guide to Divorce (First, You Bend Over And . . .), as well as a coming-of-age novel called Escaping Innocence: A Story Of Awakening. In 2014, Joe formed his own independent publishing/consulting company, Escarpment Press, which provides various publishing services to “indie” authors, including editing, formatting, and cover design.  Each year, Escarpment Press publishes one or two books under its imprint. The most recent release was Manhattan North Narcotics: Chasing the Kilo Fairy, by former NYPD detective Jake McNicholas. In addition to his writing, Joe enjoys hiking, cooking (and eating), listening to music, fly fishing, and fly tying.  He and his wife, Becky, have lived in Hendersonville for nearly 20 years. His websites are: www.joeperronejr.com and www.escarpmentpress.weebly.com. His weekly blog can be found at: www.joetheauthor.wordpress.com.  Readers may reach him via email at: [e-mail].

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Broken Promises: A Matt Davis Mystery

By

Joe Perrone Jr.

Broken Promises: A Matt Davis Mystery

By

Joe Perrone Jr.

Copyright © October 23, 2012

Joseph Perrone Jr.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © August 6, 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in in any form or means without the written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

This book is dedicated with love to the memory of the late Mary Louise Hannigan, who passed away in 2011, at the age of 84. She was a dear friend, whose honest criticism and encouraging words often served as inspiration for my work. She is greatly missed, and her wit and friendship will always be remembered.

Other books by Joe Perrone Jr.

Fiction

As the Twig is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

Twice Bitten: A Matt Davis Mystery

Escaping Innocence: A Story of Awakening

Non-fiction

A Real Man’s Guide to Divorce (First, you bend over and...)

Gone Fishin' with Kids (How to Take Your Kid Fishing and Still be Friends)

Co-authored with Manny Luftglass

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A WORD ABOUT ROSCOE

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Chapter 1

Roscoe, NY—present day

Maggie McFarland is 86-years old, but as she looks in the ancient, mahogany-framed mirror that hangs above her dresser, the face that stares back at her is that of a much younger woman—to be precise, a girl of only seventeen.

Using a silver-handled, natural-bristle brush given to her by her great grandmother, Maggie strokes her long, chestnut brown hair carefully, arranging it so she might capture every strand behind her head with an ivory barrette, also a treasured gift. A touch of rouge to each cheek, a pat of face powder to her forehead, neck, and the sides of her face, and all that is left to do is apply a hint of lipstick. Being careful not to overdo it, she traces the outline of her lips, and then purses them together as her mother taught her so many years ago. Her hazel eyes sparkle wildly beneath arched eyebrows that have been carefully plucked in wanton defiance of her mother’s strict orders to the contrary.

The dress Maggie wears is one that was tailored to her perfect, hourglass figure seventy years ago for a very special occasion. It is textured lavender cotton with pearl buttons down the front and a high collar trimmed in white lace that both accentuates the length of her slender neck and frames her angular face and high cheekbones. It has a fitted waist, with a bottom portion that is straight and pleated, falling to just above satin-finish shoes with stacked heels and laces, all dyed in matching lavender.

She picks up her purse. Its contents are meager: her social security card, a small, silver-edged mirror, a fountain pen, and two dollar bills. She won’t be late this time; after all, she has promised him. Her proper Scots Irish upbringing mandates that punctuality is something to be adhered to. Besides, she reasons, why would she want to be late for such a special occasion?

The tall, mahogany grandfather clock standing guard in the corner of her bedroom displays the time in Roman numerals: 9:45 p.m. She is expected at eleven—same as before. She’d better hurry. With a final glance in the mirror, satisfied that every hair is in place, Maggie turns toward the bedroom door. Then, just as quickly, she turns back to the mirror and can scarcely believe her eyes. Who the hell is that? The reflection she sees is that of an old woman; the face lined and weathered, the hair and eyebrows white; the lips drawn and thin. Is that me? She shakes her head. Why that’s nonsense! And yet, she has to admit the face does look vaguely familiar. Utter nonsense!

With a shrug of her shoulders, Maggie makes her way to the bedroom door, twists the clear-glass knob and slips out into the hallway to the landing at the top of the stairs. If she tiptoes quietly enough, she can make it down the single flight and out the front door without her mother ever knowing she is gone. Taking a deep breath, she starts down the staircase.

As she passes the parlor, she glances quickly to see if her mother is about, but thankfully no one is in sight. She breathes a sigh of relief, opens the front door, and dashes out into the night, feet flying over the damp grass of the front lawn, propelling her effortlessly toward the elegant Artemis Hotel, the finest meeting place in all of Roscoe. With the house receding in the distance, she gradually slows her pace and strides down the dirt road that leads to her objective—and her rendezvous with fate.

The walk to the hotel takes Maggie less than ten minutes, or so she thinks, but when she arrives in front of the stately edifice, she finds she is bone-weary, her heart beating rapidly within her chest as if she’s been hiking for far longer. She looks at the delicate watch strapped to her wrist and is shocked to find that she’s actually been traveling for close to an hour. I’m late, she thinks. It’s happened again. Why can’t I get it right?

The Artemis Hotel stands atop a gentle knoll, surrounded on all sides by tall oak and maple trees. It is a two story, white-painted, wooden structure designed in the plain but elegant Federalist style so popular with architects of the 19th Century. A generous portico protects the main entrance, which is comprised of oversized double doors of polished oak with shimmering crystal insets. Normally, the cut glass reflects the light from the bright crystal chandeliers that adorn the lobby within. But this night there are no reflections. Instead of bustling with guests checking in and out, the hotel is dark and lifeless. Maggie is puzzled. She climbs the several concrete stairs to the porch and nearly falls as she stumbles on a large, piece of burnt timber. Her breathing is ragged, and perspiration dots her forehead. She is very confused.

As she stands there, desperately trying to recapture her breath, the image of the hotel changes before her eyes. The walls deteriorate and disappear completely, exposing a hollow shell of burnt clapboard surrounding piles of discolored rubble. Broken glass and charred wood are everywhere. Maggie steps carefully over the carnage, hopelessly confused and disorientated. What has happened to the hotel?

Suddenly, a blur of motion catches her eye. Is it him? Her heart beats more quickly, and a flush comes to her cheeks. She peers through the darkness and perceives the image of a young man with his back to her. Apparently, he is searching for something—or someone. But for what, or for whom?

I’m here! she shouts at last, a broad smile spreading across her face. I’m so sorry I’m la—

The man turns and starts toward her, but Maggie doesn’t recognize him. As he moves forward, he trips, and suddenly there is a flash of light and a loud crack like a tree being struck by lightning. Maggie feels a dull thud, then a burning pain in the center of her chest; and in just seconds, nothing. She never hears the words the man screams, his voice filled with anguish. Oh, my God! What have I done? The man shoves the still-smoking pistol into his coat pocket and rushes toward her, stumbling over the piles of rubble, but it is too late.

Bending over the old woman’s motionless body, the man lifts her bony wrist and feels for a pulse, some sign of life. But there is none. He falls to the ground beside her, sobbing uncontrollably, his narrow shoulders heaving, as he mindlessly strokes the thin white hair atop her ancient head. At last, he gathers his composure, wipes the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, and then rises. His heart is filled with remorse, but right now he has no time to grieve. He is hell-bent upon disappearing as quickly as he can. He thinks briefly of calling the police, but if he does call—even from an anonymous pay phone—it would only result in his spending the rest of his life behind bars—and it surely won’t bring the woman back. Ultimately, he decides against it. Looking about to be sure no one has seen him, he moves carefully out of the ruins of the hotel, makes his way deliberately down the broken concrete stairs, and disappears into the night, his mission abandoned and forgotten.

Back to beginning

Chapter 2

I watched intently as the tiny, size 18, blue-winged olive fly floated slowly downstream with the current, tethered to a delicate 6X tippet, part of a twelve-foot, nylon leader. It was early June, and I was fishing for trout at Wagon Tracks, a heavily plied portion of the upper No Kill section of the famed Beaverkill River in New York’s Catskill Mountains. The early-morning overcast sky made it a perfect one for the attenuata hatch that had been occurring steadily for the last forty-five minutes; with a little luck, the action might continue into the afternoon. I smiled at how familiar I had become with all the Latin names for the insects I now attempted to imitate. Hell, it wasn’t fifteen years ago I barely knew what a fly rod was.

I’m Matt Davis, Chief of Police of Roscoe, New York, a small Upstate village known primarily for the outstanding trout streams that flow nearby. In fact, in addition to the title of Trout Town USA, a name by which it has been known for decades, it was recently named The Ultimate Fishing Town in a survey conducted by a national fishing tackle company.

Because it was a weekday, the gaggle of weekend fly fishermen from the New York Metropolitan area had yet to arrive, so I had the water pretty much to myself. Upstream in Cairns Pool, there were a few anglers, but for now, the water at Wagon Tracks was mine alone. I was fishing the head of the pool, right below the junction where the two narrow arteries of the river met after flowing around the small island above it. Perfect. It was Wednesday, and I had the whole morning off—unless of course there was an emergency. But thankfully, those occurrences were few and far between. Just to be safe, however, I had my newly requisitioned cell phone—switched to vibrate rather than ring—nestled in an upper pocket of my fly vest. Before entering the water earlier in the morning, I had checked to see if there were any voice or text messages. Nope. Nothing there. I was fishing with a clear conscience.

By now, the fly had reached the end of its drift, and drag had set in. With my free hand, I tugged gently on the line to submerge the fly, and then lifted it from the water with a slow, steady pull of the rod, before stopping it abruptly at the two-o’clock position of an imaginary clock. I waited until the fly line straightened out behind me, then began false casting quickly to dry the fly, while watching the water for another rise. I didn’t have to wait long.

The telltale dimple appeared on the water’s surface about three feet past where I had seen the last one. I made one more false cast and then laid out just enough line to reach my target, the long leader unfurling in such a way that it landed in a series of soft curves that resembled the letter s. The blue-winged olive floated about two feet and then disappeared. I raised the rod tip slightly while simultaneously tugging on the fly line with my left hand, and set the hook on what appeared to be a good fish.

Ten minutes later, after a protracted battle—due to the delicate nature of the tippet—I slid a solid eighteen-inch brown trout across the water and reached behind me for my landing net. Just as I leaned down to corral the fish, however, I was startled by a vibration against my chest from the cell phone in my vest pocket. Shit! I barked, as I jerked involuntarily in response and simultaneously broke off the fish. Son of a bitch!

With the trout lost, I turned my attention to the offending phone, which by now I had extracted from my vest pocket. I stared down at the tiny display and saw that it was a call from headquarters. Flipping the phone open, I pressed it to my ear. What’s up?

Matt? The voice was that of Nancy Cooper, my secretary.

That’s me, I sighed.

Did I catch you at a bad time?

What’s up?

Sorry, Matt, said Nancy. I know you’re fishing, and I hate to bother you but—

But you did anyway. So, I’m assuming it’s important, right?

Well, it’s about Maggie McFarland.

What about her? Did she drop off those trout flies I ordered?

Maggie was in her late eighties, and tied some of the finest flies in the Catskills (aside from Mary Dette Clark, who was the acknowledged local champion). I had recently placed an order for some rusty spinners, but due to Maggie’s advancing dementia, it was even money as to whether or not I would receive them. Lately, though, her granddaughter, Nellie McFarland, had assumed the mantle, so perhaps there was still a chance of getting the flies.

I wish that were it, said Nancy. Maggie’s granddaughter called first thing this morning to report her missing. Says she must have wandered off sometime between nine last night and seven this morning. She never came home.

I looked at the time displayed on the front of the cell phone: 9:47 a.m. I should have known it was too good to be true: a morning to myself on the river with no interruptions. This isn’t the first time the old gal has disappeared, I said. Has she checked with the neighbors? Maybe she’s down the street having coffee with Miriam Stone at the real estate office.

I’m afraid not, Matt. Nellie has called and looked everywhere. The only place she hasn’t looked is over at the old Artemis Hotel where they found her the last time she went missing.

Well, I’d suggest she take a ride over there.

That’s why she called, said Nancy. Nellie’s car is in the shop, and she has no way of getting over there. She was wondering if we could check for her.

I sighed and thought about it for a moment. Technically, we can’t file a missing person report for twenty-four hours, but I guess there’s nothing stopping us from doing a favor. Have Bobcat take a ride over, and let me know how he makes out.

Okay, said Nancy. That’s what I thought of doing, but I didn’t want to send him over there without talking to you first.

No problem, I said.

Oh, and don’t forget to—

I know. Leave my cell phone on, right?

Right, said Nancy. (I could almost hear her smug smile through the phone.) And, thanks, Matt. If you don’t hear anything in a while, just keep fishing and we’ll see you around noon.

I switched the phone from vibrate back to ring and returned it to my vest pocket. I really liked Maggie. And, I especially liked her flies. But now I regretted ordering them from her in the first place. Hell, I’d probably have them already if I’d gotten them from Frank Kuttner. Immediately, I regretted the thought and quietly scolded myself for even thinking such a thing. I sure hoped she was okay.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later, the peaceful silence of the morning was shattered again, only this time I was prepared for it. Shit, I thought, quickly opening the phone and placing it to my ear, let’s hope she just wandered off and got lost.

The news was far worse than I could have ever imagined.

Back to beginning

Chapter 3

Maggie McFarland was dead. I had to let the news rattle around inside my head for a while before I could fully digest it. It just couldn’t be true. It had to be a mistake. But then again, she was in her late 80s, so I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Still, it was a bit of a shock.

Are you absolutely certain? I said into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper.

What’d you say, Matt? said Bobcat.

I cleared my throat. I said are you sure?

I wish I weren’t. But there’s no doubt about it. I think she’s been dead for a while.

How’d it happen? Did she fall? Heart attack? Stroke?

She was shot—

Shot?!

Well, at least that’s what it looks like—right in the chest.

"Somebody shot Maggie McFarland?"

I’m pretty sure, Matt.

It didn’t make any sense. Who’d shoot Maggie?

Matt?

Yeah?

Are you comin’?

Yeah…yeah, I whispered. I’m…I’m over at Wagon Tracks. I’ll get there as fast as I can.

Okay. I’ll see you then.

I closed the cover on the phone and put it in my vest pocket. I slowly reeled in the fly line, snipped off the fly, and placed it in a dry fly box. I was still in a state of shock. Why in the world would someone want to shoot Maggie McFarland? It had to have been some kind of an accident.

As I waded toward shore, other possibilities ran through my mind. What if it wasn’t an accident? It could have been a robbery? Nah, that didn’t make any sense. Maggie was an old woman with hardly any money; and, besides, what would they do, follow her all the way from town and then jump her? That made even less sense. Maybe, it was someone hunting raccoons? That was possible, but then why wouldn’t they call for help? Accidents did happen. It could be explained. I thought of Vice President Cheney. Nope. Raccoon season was closed until October, so that didn’t wash either. No. It had to be murder—but why?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ten minutes later, I whipped my Jeep in behind Bobcat’s Pathfinder on the far shoulder of Old Route 17, where it ran alongside the Beaverkill River, just below the property that contained the remnants of the once-stately old hotel. Opposite it was a newly constructed parking area for fly fishermen wishing to access Ferdon’s Pool and Barnhart’s Flat. Ever since its construction, I had viewed it as a detriment to the fishing, rather than the improvement its creators had envisioned. In the old days, only the most committed were willing to make the hike through the woods to reach those hallowed waters. Now, I thought, any asshole can wet a line. Recently, however, I had reassessed my hasty judgment. I’d be old someday, I thought, and maybe by then I’d welcome the convenience afforded by the access. But right now it was irrelevant; the only fishing in my immediate future would be for Maggie’s murderer.

As I hurried up the slope to the old, burned-out ruins of the Artemis, I imagined what it must have been like in its heyday, when it first opened its doors in 1887. I’d seen photographs of the place; and it was gorgeous. Federalist architecture had been popular at the time, and the hotel was a classic example of that understated style, rendered in white-painted clapboard siding with twenty-one guest rooms, a grand dining hall, formal reading room, and a beautiful front porch that was always occupied by visitors sitting in the shade, sipping lemonade or iced tea.

Before its competitor—the Antrim Lodge—was built in 1890, the Artemis was the premier establishment of its kind along the corridor between Monticello and Binghamton. Wealthy sports used to travel from New York City by train to stay there and to fish the trout-filled waters of the Beaverkill and the Willowemoc, their wives content to socialize in the opulent dining room or sit quietly in the reading room, engrossed in racy novels. It sat high on the hill overlooking the woods in front of the river. Male patrons, dressed in woolen suits, could walk across the road in the afternoon to fish, and then return to the hotel that evening to have their catch prepared for them by a trained chef.

Once the Antrim opened its doors, however, the Artemis played second fiddle until a fire burned it nearly to the ground in 1944, in the midst of World War II. Five guests had died in the fire, which occurred at night. The cause of the blaze was never determined, but many at the time suspected foul play—although it was never proven.

I made my way to what was once the front porch. Now, all that remained of the edifice were burned and rotted timbers scattered amidst broken pieces of concrete and glass, and I had to be really careful not to trip and fall in my haste to reach Bobcat.