Chameleon

By J. D. Neill

When a skeleton is unearthed on a vast, long-abandoned, country estate, everyone imagines it is the heiress, Camellia Dawson, unseen for twenty-five years. The ensuing investigation uncovers three more bodies - none are the long-missing girl. 

Where is Camellia? What happened to her, and why? And whose are the four bodies?

The h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lanni LV LLC
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733973939

J. D. Neill

J D Neill hated the cold in England-the country of her birth. After a holiday in the sunshine, she spent two years in Italy and traveled on to teach English in the Middle East. The vibrant lifestyle gave no indication that the country was on the brink of civil war. Held hostage, her sense of normality and sanity came through keeping a diary. The written word would become her future. Fleeing civil war, like many before her, she discovered America, the land of her dreams. And, after a lengthy gestation, in 2019, her first novel Disintegration was born. Chameleon, Unraveling, and Loophole followed in 2020. The Shattering Effect, Downfall, The Captive and Thief of Memories in 2021. The Jailbird's Daughter-A Memoir, will both be released in January 2022.

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Chameleon

J. D. Neill

Also by J. D. Neill

DISINTEGRATION

CHAMELEON

Copyright © 2019 by J. D. Neill

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews, as permitted by copyright law.

Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

ISBN (print): 978-1-7339739-2-2

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7339739-3-9

Published by:

Lanni LV

1000 S Green Valley Parkway,

Suite 440-269

Henderson, NV 989074

Title: Chameleon

Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-7339739-2-2 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-7339739-4-6 (softcover) | ISBN 978-1-7339739-3-9 (ebook)

Typeset by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

This is a work of fiction. Names, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to places or actual individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Tim Durning

Who must I become today?

To protect me

I seek to please.

I am damaged, hesitant,

a changing hallucination.

Never known.

Unseen.

In memory of my mother, Doreen Alice, née Broom,

My grandmother, Alice née Childs

And to my sister, Nina Lorandi.

All loved—unconditionally.

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

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Acknowledgements

Thanks as always to Tom, my in-progress reader, and the best of husbands. To June Fellows, my first friend and the earliest reader of Chameleon, for her encouragement. To Crystala Stephens, my greatest supporter and loving friend, who encourages me always. Thanks to my creative team at Scribe: Steve Ushioda, Bethany Luckenbach, Jeff DeBlasio, and also Danny Constantino, the first professional reader of this story. I appreciate his valuable input.

One

1995

Tiny jagged circles of light permeate the ancient trees lining the pathway, and his feet carry him through massive iron entrance gates unused for years. Now rusted, they drunkenly hang on to the pillars by a prayer.

Jack slows long enough to release the leash on Dixie, his dog, and she sprints away, easily outruns him. Her stride is forceful, a Husky, child of the North, whose ancestors once pulled sleighs through wild Alaskan snow drifts.

He smiles at her energy, picks up his pace and sprints past a derelict mansion, now almost hidden by relentless kiwi vines. Undeterred, they have taken over and claimed the structure as their own. Beside it, an old Bentley has seen better days.

The former home of the affluent but reclusive Dawson family, its dozen or so bedrooms remain unused, empty for more than two decades; long before he joined the police force. Once the talk of the town, interest in the departure of the family faded and is no longer a topic for the locals, who long since concluded that rich people are unpredictable, and maybe crazy.

Jack cannot understand why anyone would abandon such a home. If it were his, he would not have left it to decay, along with the hopes and dreams that must have once played out here.

His breathing grows heavy as his feet skim over the light dusting of snow that fell last night. A thin film of perspiration on his face, he stops, bends over holding his side, and comes face to face with the remains of a rusty old jeep. It rests on its side by an oversized boulder, almost hidden in the undergrowth, abandoned, left to rot. Shiny green vines have made a home, have swallowed the chassis and crept through the windows.

I wonder what happened here? Jack mutters.

He sucks in air. The wreck must have lain for years, unused like the aged Bentley still waiting in front of the house, for people who will never return. It seems wasteful—and odd.

C’mon Jack. Gonna let a girl beat you?

He looks up and laughs as Stevie Jamison sails by. She is a marathon runner, in serious training, she won’t stop for the next few months. No way he’ll catch her, at least not until after April 15th; the historic 100th Boston Marathon.

***

Stevie is Jack’s partner and a good detective. She encouraged Jack to start running a year ago when his personal life blew up. The bombshell and the ensuing emptiness hit him hard, and the exercise has been a great outlet.

Jack laughs, as she disappears into the copse of trees ahead, this is his morning routine, and it exhilarates him, but he’s no match for Stevie. A devoted athlete, she takes her health seriously—at least, when not munching on cookies and an occasional donut. She is bright, funny and a cute girl.

He takes another breath, overcomes his body’s resistance to the exertion, and he continues, waits for the euphoria that he knows will engulf him—a runner’s high. His body has improved over the weeks, and his muscular legs are stronger, too.

It is almost the end of 1995 and tomorrow will be his tenth anniversary with the local police. Ten years! How different they have been from what he had hoped and imagined.

A solitary figure in the widening landscape he decides not to follow Stevie, he’ll never catch her anyway. He passes a stream that meanders through the picturesque meadows, and heads back into the nearby cluster of maple, spruce and fir trees, which thicken into dense woods, also part of the private estate.

The overhanging trees block out daylight as he follows the path Dixie is taking, deeper and deeper until she too is lost from sight. The woods and countryside are peaceful and glorious at this time of year, it is crisp and cold but still sunny, and he almost feels the joyful genes being released into his body as he perseveres. He could do with some joy.

A loud, angry barking in the distance breaks the tranquility and gets his attention. Although hidden from view, he recognizes the sound of dogs fighting, the kerfuffle comes from behind him. One of the noisy dogs is his, and he turns.

Dixie? Where are you? Come here, Dixie! He sprints out of the woods, alongside the ribbon of stream, which comes back into view. Near the bank, he spots his pretty grey and white Husky puppy. He calls again, but she ignores him and continues to poke her snout into something that fascinates her.

***

The surrounding area is overgrown, but the brambles stop short of the water’s edge, and have not deterred two other dogs who wrestle and snarl at each other, close to where Dixie has found her prize.

Jack’s interest is piqued; his instincts tell him something is wrong with the scene in front of him. The two dogs wrangle an object, it looks like a long leg bone. Scattered around are several other smaller pieces of bone, and from this angle, Jack can’t recognize what Dixie is sniffing. He pushes her aside, suppressing an involuntary shudder, he steps back and lets out a loud whistle as a long worm slides out from one of the holes. Without question, his hand holds a skull.

Jeez . . . he pauses, bends again and tries to retrieve the long bone from the fighting dogs.

***

Wearing a bright-red jogging outfit and a set of headphones, a slender young woman, appears from the edge of the clearing. She spots Jack near her dogs and removes the headset, wondering what has them so riled up.

What’s going on? she glances at Jack and bends to quieten the two spaniels. Cut it out, she snaps, irritated that their loud barks have replaced her calming, classical music.

Taking leashes from around her waist, she secures them, they accept the treats she offers and stop woofing. She turns to Jack, sees his Husky a short way off, and the bone he has retrieved from her dogs. Her eyes widen as she spots his other hand.

Oh, shit! she says. Excuse me. Is that skull in your hand human?

It would seem so.

My God. We should call the police, she says. Can you tell how long it’s been here?

No way to tell much without forensics, Jack answers.

Sounds like you know.

He takes out his badge.

***

On the Ligurian coast of Italy, a solitary, greying man sits alone at a busy pavement cafe. Charles Dawson is tall and thin with a slight stoop in his shoulders, and a faint trace of a mustache on his lip, his eyes are hidden behind dark-rimmed, tinted glasses.

Northern Italy is usually warm at this time of year, and, although the people are loud and seemingly friendly, it has been possible to remain separate and removed from all but the essential contacts for the twenty years or more that he has lived here.

He stares into the distance, takes an occasional sip of his espresso and plays with a spoon, tapping it rhythmically against the side of the cup.

Almost no day goes by when he doesn’t thank his lucky stars for the home he inherited here, in the hilly area above. For the past few years, he has ventured into this part of town every day, and he enjoys most afternoons down here, observing the world meander past. It has become a comfortable routine.

But today, face up on the table in front of him, an English language newspaper has a headline:

Is Skeleton the missing heiress, Camellia Dawson?

Next to it is a familiar photo. An unsmiling young woman with a long, elegant neck, holds up a trophy; some profound mystery lurks in the eyes that stare into the camera.

He glances down, it has him riled. So many years of peace and now this.

***

An old metallic organ strikes up nearby, a discordant circus sound, out of place in this sophisticated resort, and he looks up still distracted. Across the way, promenaders parade in their weekend finery.

Every Sunday across Italy, well-dressed people walk up and down in the customary passegiatta. Locals see and are seen; it is the primary social event of the weekend, the young laugh and flirt as the parade passes, friends and acquaintances nod, show themselves off, stop to exchange an occasional word or two of gossip.

The distant music floats out from the park as a little girl in a blue dress, clutching a bright yellow balloon, chases the organ grinder’s monkey on his long leash. She gurgles with pleasure. Behind her, a family of ducks floats past on a pond. Passers-by stop to take snaps and remark.

Che Bella! Quanto è bella! How pretty she is.

The proud parents preen and incline their heads at the admiration. A maid trots at a safe touching distance behind the child, fussing at every step. A beautiful Italian family, with doting, indulgent parents.

Charles’ expression is hard to read.

A clock chimes the hour: Five pm.

A pretty girl walks by with her family, and some young men nudge one another. The girl notices the boys, lowers her eyes, lifts them to scan their faces, gives the hint of a smile, and looks away again.

Charles smiles. Age-old customs still at play, he reflects. How little we have changed through the centuries.

His attention moves on to an American couple, tourists, without doubt, they make their way through the park, arguing.

Charles sighs. They are heading his way.

***

Mary and George Amante are on a tour of European cities, tracing their lineage. The last stop on their journey of discovery is Rapallo, near Portofino. Over the past weeks, they have traveled south and north, George is tired, sweat soaks his shirt and beads on his forehead.

I’m exhausted, he complains, as he follows Mary.

It’s not surprising, Mary says. I never imagined our fortieth anniversary trip would be such a challenge. She takes a breath and holds her side. Forty years, it hardly seems possible!

George wears a hat identical to the monkey’s and has a large camera bag slung over sloping shoulders that accentuate his beaten down demeanor. He does not seem excited by the upcoming tour.

At least we have a hotel to base ourselves from this week. I’m tired of one night stops. Six more days of excursions are as much as I can take. He stops to snap a picture of the ducks. I’m done searching out distant family members who don’t speak any English, and I’ve seen enough of Italy. I’m ready to head home.

Like most young Italians, George was once a handsome man, but now everything about him is grey, including his view on life.

Two

In a glass cubicle inside a busy Boston newspaper office, Managing Editor Bill Marks rubs a hand through his wiry grey hair. He feels every day of his fifty-five years, his back aches, the coffee is stale, and yesterday’s donuts are hard. News from Washington of the inevitable and imminent strikes has the newspaper world on edge. He swallows the last of the coffee and shudders.

Ugh, nothing worse than cold coffee, he says to no-one.

Bill looks up as a young reporter passes, he picks up a sheaf of papers and waves them, beckoning her to come in.

Gail Bennett tries to pretend she has not seen Bill’s gesture. An attractive, full-mouthed woman in her mid-thirties, with abundant auburn hair loosely tied on the nape of her neck, she continues along the corridor until Bill throws a tennis ball against the window.

Gail jumps, forced to stop she pushes a stray strand of hair from her eyes. There’s no way to avoid him, and she sighs. She has been on the job since before six this morning and is so ready to head home to her daughter.

Bill adjusts the glasses resting on the end of his nose and waits.

Sucking in her breath, she opens the door and pops in her head, her body stays in the corridor outside. The worried expression on her face is an almost permanent look.

Come on in Gail, for God’s sake, sit for two seconds. The world won’t disappear if you’re not on watch!

She enters and perches on the edge of a seat, rests her right ankle over her left knee, holds it to stop her foot from tapping up and down, a tick she has just developed.

Fancy a trip home? he enquires.

What? Gail is taken aback, wary. She opens her eyes wide, and her eyebrows lift, giving her a comical look as they disappear under her wispy bangs.

Bill smiles to himself, observes that when her frown goes, she looks young and attractive. He has grown fond of the diligent young woman who sits across from him, knows she is trying to build a name for herself while juggling a job and single motherhood, and he respects that she never lets anything get in the way of a deadline.

There’s a breaking story in your neck of the woods, not far from Spencer. Bits of a body found on some big old abandoned estate. A woman . . . he refers to the papers in his hand. No an heiress, not seen for twenty plus years!

The Dawson woman? Gail asks.

It is Bill’s turn to be surprised. You knew her?

Of course not, I was a child when she disappeared. But everyone in the area knows the Dawson name; there are buildings donated to the town by their family which still carry their name.

He peers over the top of his glasses at Gail. Interested?

She smiles. Of course, I am. It’s my Mom’s birthday this week; she’ll be thrilled!

His earlier avuncular manner morphs into gruff newspaperman.

This isn’t a holiday, he says. I want something special from you if you know the territory. Maybe you can get an inside look at things, a different perspective?

For sure, I know all the people up there, even have an inside track to the local police force. She smiles as she thinks of Jack Hayward, and stops when she sees a question in Bill’s eyes.

Thanks, Bill, you’re a star! Gail leans across the desk and kisses him on the cheek.

Pleased but embarrassed, he waves her away. Enough. This display is not good for his tough image, he stands and addresses her. Don’t forget, this is about getting the story, not blowing out your mother’s birthday candles! Now, get outta here.

***

Gail’s rented apartment in Boston is bright but sparsely furnished and impersonal. Except for a few stuffed toys scattered around, a tricycle in the hall, and a vivid red, yellow and black, telephone on a stand in the shape of Mickey Mouse, it has the air of a place visited, not a home.

Preoccupied, she tosses things into a suitcase. Although she is in a hurry to get going, her mind is skirting the potential difficulties of going back and facing what she ran away from last year.

Beside her, a slender, tomboyish, young woman picks up shoes and clothes from the floor. Jenny lives next door, and even the oversized black-rimmed glasses she wears cannot hide her pretty, intelligent face.

How long will you be gone? Jenny asks.

Hard to say, but a week or so I imagine. It’s an old crime, even supposing there was one, so it could take a little longer. Will you collect the mail and water the . . .

Gail looks at the dead orchid on the kitchen counter. Scratch that, she says. I get distracted and forget. But the mail? You don’t mind, do you? she asks.

Along the hall, a tiny girl throws a jumble of clothes, stuffed animals and books into a small pink case. She struggles to close the lid, and tries to squeeze in a resisting velvet elephant. She grunts with the effort, but it won’t fit. Shannon is not yet five.

Not Dumbo sweetie! Gail says, bending to embrace her. She tidies Shannon’s hair and strokes her face. He has to stay here and take care of things for us, OK?

Jenny picks up the oversized elephant. She looks at him, buries her face in his ear, and the elephant’s trunk begins to swing back and forth with a loud—Hrrhmp.

See? He’ll watch over things while you’re gone, Shan, she says.

Jenny is part of their tiny family in Boston, a surrogate mother, and Shannon’s best friend. Studying to become a psychologist or perhaps even a psychiatrist if she works hard enough. Each afternoon, when she finishes college, she picks Shannon up from day school and cares for her until Gail arrives home, sometimes sleeping over when Gail is busy.

Shannon smiles. OK, Jenny.

Shannon passes the stuffed toy to Jenny. Appeased, the little girl runs after her and helps arrange him by the front door. On guard. She returns and stands at Gail’s bedroom door, watching her mother take things from the closet.

Can Daddy come, too?

Startled, Gail looks at Shannon’s earnest little face, she glances across at Jenny, who is also confused. The child takes a framed photo of a smiling, handsome young man from behind her back.

Yes, sweetie, of course, he can.

Shannon places the photo in the suitcase and bends to kiss her father’s image.

See Daddy; we’re all going home to visit Grandma.

Gail’s smile is sad, but she resumes packing, as Jenny bites back a sniff and helps Shannon dress for the journey.

I’ll miss you, Jenny, but I wish we could go home forever, the little girl whispers.

Gail overhears her daughter’s remark and winces. How sad she doesn’t regard this as our home.

Fumbling with the giant bag slung over her shoulder, she takes a last glance around before locking the front door, she offers a hand to Shannon who clutches her pink case and another large stuffed toy under her arm.

I’ll just be a minute. Jenny ducks inside her apartment.

We’re going on down to the car, I only have an hour of daylight left, Gail continues down the stairs with Shannon in tow.

Loaded and almost ready to go, Jenny runs up, holding a coloring book and crayons. She pops them onto the seat beside Shannon, throws her arms around the little girl and buckles her in.

I’ll see you in a few days, Shan. Be good for Mommy. I love you. I’ll miss you lots, she tells her, and turns to Gail. Your Mom will be pleased to see Shan. She’s getting so grown up!

Gail squashes the last bag into the trunk and closes the lid. I called, she’s over the moon. I expect she’s cleaning and cooking as we speak! I’ll come back fat as a pig.

Sure you will, Jennie says as she eyes Gail’s spare frame. You could do with a little fattening. If you get any slimmer, you’ll disappear. She kisses Gail on the cheek. Call me when you get home. Shan and I are going to see big elephants at the zoo, aren’t we? Jenny ruffles the child’s head and closes the car door.

Bye, Jenny, I love you lots. Shannon lifts her tiny hand, and she and her toy wave until Jenny is out of sight.

***

They settle in for the journey home. Less than seventy miles, with any luck just an hour and a half, but the light is fading, the weather has taken a turn for the worse, and Gail fears it could take longer.

Setting aside her coloring book, Shannon begins to hum, and before long they are both singing at the tops of their voices.

One man went to mow, Went to mow the meadow

One man and his dog went to mow the meadow.

The station wagon gets onto the I—93 S out of the city and, after a few familiar turns, Gail is heading in the right direction. She sits back to relax for the next fifty miles. They continue to sing, but after a while, Gail notices hers is the only voice, Shannon has fallen silent. In the rearview mirror, she sees her daughter’s head loll to one side as she drifts off to sleep.

Just as well, Gail thinks. The snowfall is thicker now, and she is concerned that the journey will balloon. Maybe we should have waited till morning?

About forty miles on, a column of red tail lights warn her traffic up ahead is backed up. A belated sign announces:

Closures due to road works.

No-one is going to work in this weather, she says aloud. God, just let me get home.

To avoid the chaos she heads north, loops around and back onto the smaller highway. But this is blocked, too, by an overturned vehicle, and the traffic redirects onto more minor local roads.

It’s a conspiracy, she mutters.

Through banks of white snow, along country roads, Gail hopes to get to her mother’s by dinnertime, but as time passes, her only prayer is they will make it before everyone goes to bed.

Her thoughts drift to her home town and the family she left, in her attempt to forget and start over. At times she misses them, and Jack, of course, her forever friend. After his devotion, he didn’t deserve the way she had behaved, but it’s too late now, she thinks.

***

It was dark when they escaped the city traffic and reached the Interstate, propelled by her desire to get home and start digging into the story, now she has to