The Wrong Combination

By Geoffrey A. Feller

Natalie Dvorak Mystery #7

One Saturday morning, the youngest son of a rural crime family pays a surprise visit to his boyhood home. When the new owner lodges a complaint, the case is escalated to Detective-Sergeant Natalie Dvorak of the Vermont State Police. Natalie is on the verge of discovering the family’s secret when a mysterious stranger comes down from Canada with revenge on his mind. A desperate deal among criminals leads to violence and death with Natalie leading the effort to track a killer and his kidnap victim. The authorities struggle to find him before he either escapes or adds to the body count. (105)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey A. Feller
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463036655

Geoffrey A. Feller

I was born fifty-seven years ago in the Bible belt but grew up in a Massachusetts college town. I am married and my wife and I have moved frequently since we met. We've lived in Minnesota, Massachusetts, and New Mexico, as well as a brief residency in Berlin, Germany. I have worked peripherally in health care, banking, and insurance. In addition to writing, I have done a bit of amateur acting and comedy performances. I am afraid of heights but public speaking doesn't scare me. My wife and I live in Albuquerque with our chihuahua.

Book preview

THE

WRONG COMBINATION

by Geoffrey A. Feller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 by Geoffrey A. Feller

CHAPTER ONE:

SEVEN MINUTES UNDERGROUND

Mark Bachand was staring at a house that was not his home anymore. He had grown up in that house; lived under that roof for eighteen years before enlisting in the U.S. Army for a four year hitch that was extended by a three year sentence to the stockade.

The Bachands had moved on to another town several miles farther north and deeper into the woods on the western slopes of the Green Mountains. Mark had been over to see them the day before but had unfinished business back here at the family home in Ransford. Mark hadn’t cared to be seen by anyone who knew the Bachands; the clan didn’t have a good reputation in town.

He’d driven Pop Bachand’s station wagon down the Ethan Allen Highway before dawn, passing through the center of town before anyone was likely to be awake. The former Bachand house was on a country road once miles away from the nearest neighbor. Since Mark had been issued his uniform, a few new houses had been built along the road but his destination was not within sight of any of these homes.

Mark had pulled over into a clearing off the road and dozed for a couple of hours, not wanting to wake the new owners. By nine o’clock on a Saturday, he assumed the household would be at or past their breakfast.

Mark knew nothing about who’d bought the Bachand house except they were flatlanders―not Vermont natives―and probably unaware of the family’s reputation.

After finishing his cigarette, Mark had next driven the last tenth of a mile to his destination. It looked like the same house, of course. Wide front porch taking up the entire front of the structure; two stories and a black shingled vaulted roof; two windows on either side of the front door; two more windows carved into the roof; one brick chimney on the west side of the house, to Mark’s left as he stood outside the station wagon.

But there were some changes. The front door, whitewashed in Mark’s time here, was now painted forest green. Wicker armchairs were set out on the porch. One other detail made Mark sneer: a small flag was tacked up on the front door. It was a yellow peace symbol on a sky blue field.

Mark was not a tall man. But he was solidly built and his default facial expression was an insolent scowl. Mark walked up the stone path to the porch with a confident swagger.

In the early evening of the following day at a house in the next county, off-duty Detective Sergeant Natalie Dvorak of the Vermont State Police was enjoying a backyard barbecue supper. She was sitting at a round wooden picnic table with her husband Dan Moritz and their guests Brian and Jane Cooper.

Natalie and Dan’s home was on a mountainside in Holbrook, overlooking the town center. Dan was Holbrook’s town constable, the one-man police department in this community of 208. Brian was another constable for the slightly larger town of Ransford.

Jane had called ahead to insist that Dan start grilling before she and her husband arrived because they’d be running late. Dan had told Jane that he’d be able to keep the food hot if his guests showed up after the meat had been turned for the last time. So, as it happened, there had been no time for small talk before the quartet sat down at the table to eat.

How’s your daughter? Joan asked Dan. I was hoping to see her.

She’s fine, Dan said. Spent the first part of the summer moping around after she graduated. Elaine wanted to take a year off between high school and college. Her mother said it was okay before talking to me about it. I didn’t like the idea but it was a case of ‘Mom said I could.’ When you’re divorced and your ex has custody, it’s hard to present a united front.

She change her mind? Brian asked.

Elaine or Michelle? Natalie replied.

Either, I guess, Brian replied with a smile.

Elaine sort of changed her mind, Dan said. She’s gone up to Albany with one of her friends. There’s a beautician school up there that the two of them are planning to enroll in.

Why all the way up there? Jane asked.

Probably to get away from home, Natalie suggested. This time we had a discussion first. Me, Dan, Michelle, we heard Elaine’s case together. She and her pal want to get an apartment; Elaine thinks she can get work at a supermarket for pocket money if we cover her rent and her grandparents pay the tuition. She’s worked in the family grocery here in town with Dan and Michelle. She’s tall enough to reach the high shelves and strong enough to carry bags full of cat food cans for little old ladies.

I can understand working in a supermarket for now, Joan said. But become a beautician? Why not be more ambitious?

It’s more ambition than doing nothing more than stocking Michelle’s shelves with a constant frown on her face, Dan said. Maybe she’ll do okay with hair dye and perms. Maybe she’ll get sick of that and give college another thought.

She’s young, Natalie said.

So are you, Joan told her.

Young, Natalie scoffed. I’m past forty, almost forty-two.

Wait’ll you’re past sixty, Joan said. Forty-two’s young to me. As a matter of fact, maybe Elaine could touch up my color someday.

What about you? Dan asked, looking at Brian. Get that snow white head of hair dyed a youthful brown?

Least I have hair to dye, Brian said, prompting Dan to massage his balding scalp.

Natalie smirked both at her husband’s male pattern baldness and at her own treatments. Within the past year, gray strands had started to grow within her dark brown hair. Natalie had chosen to cover that sign of aging even as she’d been hitting the barracks weight room to keep her small body lean and formidable. But physical fitness had more to do with her line of work than vanity.

Now, Dan, Brian said, shifting to a more serious tone of voice, I’m glad we’d planned this get-together a week ago because I wouldn’t want you to think there was a… an ulterior motive.

Ulterior motive? Dan asked.

There’s a situation… Hell, that’s making too much of it right there. Anyway, a minor incident in my town with one of the newcomers, one of these New York hippies. He bought a house about a year ago out on the old farm road past the new development.

Caught him growing a marijuana patch? Dan asked.

No, he was the complainant. Came by my office yesterday noon to report an intruder at the house.

A break-in? Natalie asked.

Not that. This so-called intruder knocked on the front door, asked to come inside, then kind of pushed his way in. The hippie was scared of the man even though that guy was kind of a sawed-off punk. Didn’t steal anything belonged to the hippie, either.

Scared the punk might come back? Dan asked.

Yeah. Wanted me to have a word with him.

And did you? Natalie asked.

No. He don’t live in Ransford. Not anymore.

But you know who it was? Natalie asked.

Yep. Mark Bachand. That hippie bought the old Bachand house.

Wait, Dan said with a frown. Aren’t the Bachands a bunch of criminals?

No more, Brian said, shrugging. Their smuggling operation got shut down when the RCMP busted the other end up in Ontario. VSP rounded the Bachands up, right Natalie?

I remember. It was in ’eighty-two. But I wasn’t on the task force.

They sold the house and land to pay legal bills, moved on up to Porterfield. Happened while Mark was in the army. Guess he wanted to see the old homestead. Harmless.

But Mark scared the new owner enough to pay you a visit, Dan said.

Told the hippie―

His name? Natalie asked.

Irving. Nick Irving.

Natalie prompted Brian to continue with a nod.

Told Irving to forget it; Bachand’s harmless. But when Irving heard that, he threatened to take his complaint to the VSP.

Bet that pissed you off, Dan remarked.

It did, Brian admitted.

Want me to check in on the investigation, such as it is? Natalie asked. I can. Slow at the office lately.

Her guest nodded.

After the sun had gown down and the Coopers had left for home, Natalie and Dan washed their dishes in the kitchen sink.

I wonder if I should’ve done that, Natalie said, looking up at Dan, offered to see if that flatlander called in about Bachand.

Why not?

Might be butting in on someone else’s case.

What case? Bachand came inside the house, made the hippie nervous, then left of his own volition, sounds like.

If it was someone else, there’d be nothing to it. But he’s a Bachand. What would you have done if the Bachands had come from Holbrook, your town, then cleared out after half of ’em got indicted and convicted for a variety of felonies only to have one of them wander back in and want to get inside the old homestead?

Would’ve been curious about what drew him into the house.

Wouldn’t you like to interrogate Mark to try and find out?

Dan set the last plate in the drying rack. He turned and put his hands around Natalie’s waist.

That’s not for a small-town constable to do, Dan replied. I’d have to call in the VSP.

Wouldn’t that hurt your pride? Natalie asked, caressing his thickly-muscled forearms.

Pride has nothing to do with it. Bachand leaves my town, he leaves my jurisdiction. Wasn’t pride that stopped Brian from taking at further. It was just laziness.

It was barely more than professional courtesy that made Natalie call Constable Cooper. She placed the call from her desk in the detective squad room after drinking half a cup of black coffee, manila folders lying open in front of her.

There was a call into the barracks Sunday afternoon from Nick Irving to report probably just what he told you about. Captain Oswald sent one of our troopers out to Porterfield to interrogate Mark Bachand and was told by the man’s mother that he wasn’t in.

Nothin’ suspicious about that.

Didn’t say that it was. Ma Barker over there said her son was out of state but that he’s expected back this afternoon. I volunteered to do the return interview.

Why get involved?

Natalie inhaled softly, trying to keep from expressing the frustration she felt with Brian.

You know that kid has a record?

Record? I thought it was his brothers got busted while Mark was in the army.

I meant his service record, Natalie said, squinting at one of the forms she’d reviewed when she’d been wearing her reading glasses. That includes a court-martial and dishonorable discharge.

Oh, yeah?

Well, forget it. This won’t be your problem anymore. Worst that could happen is that Irving introduces a motion to relieve you of duty next town meeting.

After Dan had left Michelle for Natalie a few years earlier, a few townsfolk in Holbrook had tried to do just that to him. The resolution failed to pass at the annual town meeting and Dan’s job had