The Ink Master Murder: A Mystery

By Gene Lovell

Zippy Cosmo moves his wife and family from Baltimore to the Eastern Shore to escape the citys inhumanity and growing civil rights violence. The small provincial town they settle in is sleepy and remote; it seems ideal to raise their five children. But, a tattoo artist rents the old post office building and tattoos the wrong farmers daughter according to the local intel.

The search for his killer and how it impacts this familys lives is what makes THE INK MASTER MURDER, a mystery by Gene Lovell, a fascinating read. Can you dig it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475917406

Gene Lovell

Gene Lovell was a broker for John C. Legg (now Legg Mason) in the late fifties when that firm, an industry expert in insurance stocks, led a successful fight to seize control of New Amsterdam Casualty Insurance Co., giving him insight into what a ?takeover? is all about. A well-known portrait painter and successful author of six other novels, Lovell lives quietly on the Eastern Shore with Jacquelyn Amos, his wife of fifty-three years, fighting boredom and cancer.

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Copyright © 2012 by Gene Lovell.

Graphics and cover by Gene Lovell

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-1741-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1742-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1740-6 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/07/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

DISCLAIMER

OTHER BOOKS IN PRINT BY THE AUTHOR

You show me a woman between fifteen and thirty with a tattoo, and I’ll show you a whore.

Kyle Lovell

(1960-2005)

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank Chuck and Judy Planner for helping me with both my art and my writing projects. I wish to thank Karen Coleman Gibbons-Neff and Sandy Van Schaik Pomeroy for taking me out once a month for an airing. My special thanks goes to Stephanie Lovell Lee for her weekly visits to counsel and give me the latest intel.

My gratitude never ceases for the help given by Pearl S. Buck, Atlee C. Kepler, Stephen Dixon, and my typist, Tina Woods.

Gene Lovell

ONE

My first glimpse of Preston, Maryland was in October, 1966. My wife and I were passengers in the car of Winston Turner, a sometime realtor with a phone booth-sized office along the railroad tracks in Hurlock, Maryland, a few miles southeast of Preston. On the outskirts of the town, Turner pointed to a small lake on our right.

Linchester Mill Pond, he said. The mill is over on our left. Washington’s troops had their grain ground there.

How interesting, my wife said.

We passed by the place before I had a good look. I didn’t mind. My thoughts were on the house Turner was taking us to see.

A service station/restaurant just past a big cemetery came into view next then some two and a half story bungalows on a street lined with flaming maples. It was a seriously beautiful sight. Then a restaurant named The Black Kettle appeared on the right opposite a magnificent stone church.

If you’re Lutherans, you’ll go there, our guide said. And over on your right is the bank. It’s a state bank, but most of the locals bank there.

We passed a post office of bright new red brick on the right.

How big is Preston, population-wise?

It’s probably got six or seven hundred ma’am.

We passed an IGA grocery store and the Preston school opposite a Ford car dealership and more houses on either side before reaching the town’s drug store at the mouth of an intersection leading west toward the bright setting sun. On one corner was a Citgo station and on the other a long brick building.

That’s called The Corner Bar on the end, and at the back, Turner said, as he turned into the new street, we have the Preston News and Farmer.

Let me guess, I said a newspaper.

Indeed, the realtor said, studying me in the rearview. He turned slightly toward my wife and gestured with both hands. This here is Millionaire’s Row, Mrs. Cosmo. Every one of these nice houses you see here on either side of this street held a millionaire at one time or another. This first one here on the right even has an elevator.

I noticed it also had leaded pane windows and a red Chinese tile roof.

Really, my wife said.

We crossed a railroad track after a block.

How did they make all that money? my wife asked.

They owned canneries. They canned all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and, he said pointing to a large, low slung building nestled amid a stand of ancient oaks, they then sold those cans out of that brokerage house there.

My husband was a broker.

Oh? His eyes found my face again.

I sold stocks and bonds, dear. This is a food broker. Even if it does look like a big funeral home I added silently.

Who were you with?

N.Y.S.E.

Oh.

The houses began to peter out giving way to fields of corn stubble. I saw neither pigs nor cows, nor horses.

We approached a fork in the road and veered left, leaving the macadam. We created a mild dust storm in our wake. Apparently it had not rained recently.

The road headed directly into the sun passing between flat fields with trees only on the distant horizon on each side.

After half a mile, we passed a farmhouse on either side set back at least a quarter mile. After another half mile another farmhouse appeared on our left again set well back, but surrounded by pens of black and white cows. I could also see a large barn that looked like a milking parlor.

Dairy?

Yessir, Voshell’s. They milk about a hundred head.

Wow.

Yessir.

I noticed he studied me in the mirror again and it occurred to me in a flash that he was queer! Wow, now there was an anomaly—a country queer! Cheez, how did his neighbors and friends (if few) treat him? Or, did they know? In Baltimore, there was no need for a closet. The very size of the horde was sufficient to afford you all the cover you might require. Here? Here was the Horse of a Different Color, I made a mental note to check up on my realtor.

My husband knows about cows and milking. He grew up on a farm, my wife said.

That face appeared in the mirror again. Oh?

Only in the summers, and we only milked one or two. It was mostly a beef operation, I said.

Really?

I wanted to say YES, REALLY, IT’S NOT THAT BIG A DEAL! but I looked out the window and let it go. Prolonging a conversation with a queer could only lead to trouble.

My wife rescued the moment by stabbing the air toward the horizon with a first finger and exclaiming, Is THAT it?

Our guide stared with me. Yes, ma’am. That’s it.

My reaction was silly. For some inane reason, it provoked the word castle into my mind. Outlined as it was and back-lighted by the setting sun gave the huge house an eminence perhaps undeserved in the mind of a mature, sober adult, (which I considered myself to be). But I did not dismiss the choice out of hand. After all, I rationalized, wasn’t this whole change-of-life /style of moving to the Eastern Shore of Maryland pretty fanciful? Hadn’t my friends in the financial community in which I moved and worked ridiculed my decision to leave Wall Street and bury myself in the sticks? Zippy, have you lost your mind? Caroline County is endsville. It’s a flat place between the Bay Bridge and O.C. Nobody lives there!

Peridot’s squeals of delight momentarily destroyed my doubts and self-rebukes. Her Oh-h-h, Zippy! I love it. I love it. I love it! changed the game.

Since I had to live with her and not my associates, I took a little more heart in my decision.

As we crawled toward it, (our guide playing the drum roll, please card), I had to admit it was pretty impressive in scope. It was at least seventy feet long with huge covered porches all around. Its two-and-a half stories dominated the landscape, its need of paint notwithstanding. The scalloped filigreed connecting of the gabled roof were impressive as were the wooden shingles festooned as they were with moss and fungi a long time growing.

The near-animal sounds that Peridot was making in delight told me NOT buying this house was NOT an option.

Four chimneys and eight fireplaces, our queer realtor was chortling, as he piled onto Peridot’s perceived happiness and his assumption a sale was a done-deal. And eight foot ceilings. Wait ’til you see the floors.

The floor boards had their own holes a testament to decades of work by powder post beetles and other devotees of wood that nature provided. They were impressive, but could not hold a candle to the staircases and rails. Scarlett and Tara had nothing on Cosmo’s Cove as Peridot had already christened the place . . . excuse me, palace! They were an open invitation to sliding. I could already see the hospital bills for broken arms and legs as our five children slid down those polished banisters. The thirteen rooms were all large save two. Only the bathroom needed attention. As our bachelor farmer/neighbor was later to explain to us, Mother came to that room up over the kitchen in ’96. That low part was built in ’26, the high part added in ’96 and the bathroom and garage in ’36. Then he showed us some dirt beneath his thumbnail, And I wouldn’t sell that much of Voshell land to anybody.

Our realtor told us now that the only reason he could sell us the house and three acres was because the bachelor and two brothers had stored grain in an unused part of the house and annoyed an aunt who owned the place in 1960 and she had sold fifty acres west of Blades Road to a lumber yard owner in Hurlock who built her a house elsewhere and gave her $10,000. So, Bill Gannon got fifty acres of beautiful waterfront land for a song, Turner said. He sold this house to a North Caroline teacher who got homesick and went back to Tar Heel country.

How much? I said, as Peridot clasped her hands in a prayerful ball and jumped up and down like a child.

Please, Zippy? Please?

He wants twenty.

I’ll give you twelve.

Peridot bit her lip and beseeched me. Just buy it, please, Zippy.

Eighteen, Turner said. I can’t go to him with less.

We shook hands at $15,000.00 Peridot threatened to pee herself.

Unbelievable, I told her as we drove back to Baltimore. All of that house and land for what a new house in Towson costs! It’s unbelievable.

Peridot hugged my shoulders and nuzzled my neck. She ran her tongue into my ear and promised all sort of sexual rewards when we got home.

Quit, honey, you’ll cause me to drive off this bridge, I told her. I felt pretty good.

Very well, but I’ll still keep my promise. She curled up like a kitten by the door and began to read a copy of the Preston News and Farmer Turner has given us when we went back into town. He had also introduced us to its owner/editor, Bradford Chamberland.

I know about you, the rosy cheeked, white-maned literary lion said, as he pumped my hand. Both of you. He bowed slightly to my wife. Ma’am. Bachelor of Science from Winthrop and Master of Arts from Johns Hopkins.

How in the world . . . I said.

I keep up with new additions to our country, the newspaperman explained. Fred Usilton is a friend.

Peridot and I exchanged looks. The man who had hired us, The Assistant Superintendant of Schools.

Oh? And, pray tell, what other lies did Mister Usilton tell you? I’d like equal time to tell yo my side.

Both Turner and Chamberland guffawed.

Bradford said, You got a B.A. from Hopkins, a Juris Doctor from the University of Maryland Law School, and a Ph.D. in Economics from N.Y.U., doctor.

No, no. Please, no doctor, no mister. Just Zip, or Zippy Cosmo, if you please.

Very well, Zippy. You are also related to Pearl S. Buck, in some way! Right?

I know her. I grew up fifteen miles from her home at Stulting Place in Hillsboro, West Virginia.

Good! I want you to review some of her books. The good folk hereabouts need to catch up on their literature.

I—I’ll try. I’d be honored.

Good! Now that that’s settled, let’s have a drink. He fetched a fifth of Southern Comfort and some dusty glasses from the lower right-hand drawer of his blond oak desk.

Turner said, How do you ever find anything, Brad?

Chamberland dismissed the criticism with a growl, I’ve never lost a story in my life. That’s all that counts.

We drank, shook hands, and left, Peridot the recipient of the copy of the paper she now read aloud.

Zippy, listen. There’s an ad in here for ‘fox grapes to make jelly for politicians’. Isn’t that so dear?

She read tidbits as I drove and we shared the happiness that comes with buying a new home. It never got old with me even though in the thirteen years we had lived in Baltimore, I had bought her nine different houses. We shared a joke: instead of spring cleaning I would just buy her a new house. In truth, it fit our circumstances. Peridot hated to clean. She wasn’t lazy. About other tasks she would burn the midnight oil, being the last to turn out the wick. But cleaning? No way. I’ll leave the dust for your second wife, she said more than once. Now I had made it possible for her to escape house cleaning again.

What else is there besides livestock and grain prices, and pictures of this year’s Future Farmer of America?

She hesitated, then said: Here’s a little piece about a Sheldon Ink Master Snodgrass, who was found dead the day before in his tattoo parlor in the old post office building.

And?

And what, honey?

How did he die?

It says the cause of death is under investigation.

I’ll make you a bet it’s murder.

Oh, Zippy! Do you really think so?

It won’t be the first time a tattoo man tattooed some farmer’s daughter and was killed for his efforts! Don’t you remember that tattoo parlor in that little town in North Carolina . . .

Coinjock!

Right!

But, honey, wasn’t that guy just burned out?

Yes, but he just moved down the street. Then he was shot.

Oooh, you’re right. She got that frightened look. Oh, Zippy, you don’t suppose we just bought a house in another small town that has a murderer, do you?

Honey. Honey. Stop this. Don’t jump to conclusions.

But the possibility bugged me the rest of the drive.

stars.jpg

TWO

Most people only move two or three times in their lives. I had already moved ten times before I bought Cosmo’s Cove. Kelly Brothers was my mover. They had moved me nine times. I knew the five brothers and their four cousins by name and face. They were almost family. They also knew my family. They called Peridot Missus Zippy and each of our three boys and two girls by first name, as well as my parents and sister and Peridot’s parents and her sister having moved them each once at my bidding. They were black, cheap, dependable, and wholly efficient. Elmo moved more goods than any of the other eight, and he only had a six-inch stub for a left arm. I also called upon them occasionally for some strong-arm work when I needed a repossession or intimidation in the black neighborhoods of Baltimore in my law practice. They were grateful for the work and money and were fiercely loyal.

Will you call Clarence, or should I? my wife said, as we pulled into our Towson driveway.

I’ll call, I said. I have to tell them it’s a rush job and we’ll need to pack all weekend.

We were bombarded with questions on all sides by our children. The boys were excited at the prospect of moving to a place where they could fish and hunt practically in their own backyard. For them it was a whole new world to conquer. It was a happy thing. For the girls not so much. Of course Sunshine was only six weeks old, so she only knew she got little attention for two days. If Peridot had not been breast feeding her, the time would have been even less.

It was only then, because I saw Lamont’s tattoo as he packed my law books, that I thought of Mr. Inkmaster being found dead in Preston. Then the thought was swept away as Molly tugged at my sleeve.

Daddy, I won’t know anybody there. All my friends are here. She was near tears.

I hugged her and told her how her world of friends was about to grow exponentially and distracted her by challenging her with multiplication problems. Molly liked math and it worked . . . I thought.

Monday night we were in our new house. We were tired but happy. I held a tribal council before we all dropped dead in our tracks.

"Listen up me hearties. Here’s the new routine. When I call you, you will get up then! No second call. Get up and take your turn in the bathroom. No horseplay. There’s only one bathroom so do what you need and get out! Understand? Good! I will cook breakfast while you and mother dress. Then we will eat together. Then final bathroom call and get coats and books together.

We don’t have any books yet, my father.

Yes, Coyt! I know that! When you DO HAVE BOOKS!

Zippy. You’re shouting.

YES, DEAR! Sorry. Sorry.

Cord wanted to know about lunch.

We’ll all buy this first day.

I have no money, my father.

COYT! I’ll give you money in the morning!

You are shouting again, honey.

God d . . . Sorry, sorry, I said with great effort. Go to bed and sleep tight. I love you. Mother will tuck you in and hear prayers.

Do we still have to be tucked in, my father?

Yeah, Daddy, now that we’re in the country can’t we just forget about . . .

GO TO BED.

I was just pouring in the scrambled eggs when I heard Molly yell: Momma, Clay just peed in my eye!

Clay!

She’s taking too long, I heard Clay holler.

I yelled, Clay, don’t you dare pee in your sister’s eye! As I yelled it I nearly laughed at how patently ridiculous it sounded.

Nurse Auburn Webster arrived to take care of Sunshine just then and we forgot about who was peeing on whom.

In the station wagon, I issued some last minute orders.

I want no fighting, no bullshit. Pay attention. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut!

Suppose they start it, Cord said.

Be sure they start it. Then you finish it. Short and sweet.

Suppose they call you a bad name.

Sticks and stones, Cord. Sticks and stones.

My first class was thirty ninth-grade Civics scholars. I stood by the door and looked each in the face as they entered. The principal stood beside me. When the last had entered he said quietly: Remember Mister Cosmo, the parents have sent you the best they have. He turned and left. My Yes, sir, fell on his back. The bell rang and I closed the door. Only then did