Amateur Hour

By Geoffrey A. Feller

Natalie Dvorak #15:

Natalie Dvorak has earned a vacation from her job as a Vermont State Police detective. But crime continues back home as Natalie takes in the sun. Her young partner catches a drug case that leads to a task force investigation in the state’s largest town. Meanwhile, Natalie’s own brother makes an amateur inquiry after the son of a theater director goes missing in the same community. The police find out what the missing young man has been doing but don’t know who he is; Natalie’s brother knows who the young man is but not what he’s been up to. Dangerous criminals are involved and Natalie is pulled into the case as soon as she’s back in Vermont. By the time Natalie finds out what her brother has been playing at, a murder has been committed; what does the missing person know about the killing?

Included in this volume: The Rick Wagner Mysteries by Siegfried Feller – the author’s father wrote his own police procedurals more than fifty years ago. Did the apple fall far from the tree?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey A. Feller
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463871874

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

AMATEUR

HOUR

by Geoffrey A. Feller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 by Geoffrey A. Feller

CHAPTER ONE:

DINNER AT KILLIAN’S

Natalie Dvorak?

The voice came from behind. Natalie had been walking away from police headquarters and so she turned around, holding her purse tightly.

Natalie was wearing a long-sleeved burgundy dress with white cuffs and collar. The dress came down a few inches above her knees and would have exposed more thigh if she’d been taller. Natalie’s thin legs were encased in panty hose above flat-soled black shoes. Her bobbed hair was dark and her deep blue eyes were separated by a prominent nose. Those eyes stared with momentary alarm.

But then Natalie was relieved to see a uniformed police officer standing in front of her. He was a Burlington P.D. patrolman, short and lean, with a handsome face under the hat visor.

Yeah, I’m Natalie Dvorak.

I wanted to ask you about a car you ticketed this morning.

Well, I’m off-duty now.

Just a quick question.

Natalie noticed the cop’s name plate read BIXBY. She hadn’t seen him around headquarters before.

Are you a rookie? Natalie asked.

No. Two years on the force. I’m Art Bixby. You’re the one who’s new.

Guess so. You look so young, though.

So do you.

My brother says any cop under twenty-five joined the force to avoid going to Vietnam. Is that true?

God, the mouth on you! Art said; but he was smiling.

Sorry, Artie. Can I call you that?

Sure, honey. I wonder why small girls are so smart-alecky.

Makes up for being little, I guess. Looks like you just made the height requirement for a patrolman.

Lucky there’s no minimum height to be a meter maid. How old are you, anyway?

Twenty-four. Just barely. And you?

Twenty-six.

So, what’s your question?

Two questions.

Now it’s two.

That 1952 DeSoto at Church and Main…

Two-toned, red and cream-white. Yeah?

Do you remember if it was parked behind a white panel truck for a diaper service?

It wasn’t, at least not when I wrote up the ticket.

Okay.

So, is there some big case going on? That panel truck full of stolen gold bars?

Why don’t I tell you all about it over a nice dinner at Killian’s?

And that’s question number two?

You always answer questions with a question?

You can find out at Killian’s, Artie. Swing by my place at seven.

29 Eddy Street.

Natalie laughed.

What else do you know about me?

I’ll tell you tonight, Artie replied with a smirk.

Three hours later, Natalie was wearing the same dress but had put on a set of pearl-gray, two-inch heeled pumps. She also touched up her hair, sprayed on some perfume, and applied a fresh layer of lipstick.

Natalie still lived with her parents, Stefan and Beatrice, in a small bungalow on a shady street south of downtown. Natalie’s lipstick had caused a spat between her and Beatrice. It wasn’t because Natalie was wearing it but because she left the stick where Melanie could reach it. This was Natalie’s four year old niece who was spending the evening at grandma’s house. The tiny child had imitated her beloved Auntie by smearing the Maybelline product on her own lips.

Beatrice shouted angrily for Natalie, summoning her to the upstairs bathroom. Mrs. Dvorak was applying a wet washcloth to the little girl’s mouth. Melanie had the same dark hair and skin tone as Natalie; the face looked like Natalie’s sister-in-law in miniature.

It’s not like she ate it, Natalie sighed, impatient to meet Artie outside the house. You didn’t eat any of it, did you, Melanie?

Beatrice took the washcloth away from the child’s mouth.

Didn’t eat any! Melanie chirped, grinning up at Natalie; mischief glinting in those Dvorak-blue eyes.

Reaching down to tousle Melanie’s hair, Natalie said: Be good for Grandma while I’m gone.

"You be good, too, young miss," Beatrice told her daughter with a frown.

Finally, Natalie was standing on the Eddy Street sidewalk. Within a few minutes, a yellow Mustang roared up the street and stopped in front of her. Artie, wearing a white polo shirt and navy blue chinos, got out, leaving the engine running. He came around to open the door for Natalie. She smiled and got inside the car. The dashboard radio was playing; Natalie heard Frank Sinatra singing about the summer wind. Without asking permission, she twisted the radio tuner knob and picked up her preferred station. The song 96 Tears came through the speakers.

Artie grinned at her as he got back behind the wheel.

And five years later, he was my ex-husband, Natalie murmured to herself.

What’s that, Sergeant?

Natalie turned her head and smiled up at Trooper Jim Ross, standing to her right. They were in the detectives’ squad room at the Rutland State Police barracks. A white-frosting sheet cake, decorated with two dozen burning candles, had been set on Detective Sharon Fallon’s desk. Sharon was the slender blond woman wearing glasses. With a big smile, she blew the candles out.

Just thinking back to when I was twenty-four, Natalie said as she and Ross applauded Sharon.

What was your birthday party like?

I don’t remember it, Ross. I was thinking about something else that happened way back then.

Killian’s was still in business twenty years and seven months after Art Bixby escorted the young Natalie Dvorak there for a first date. Like Natalie herself, the restaurant had changed over the years; while the onetime meter maid had put more than twenty pounds of muscle and become a State Police Detective-Sergeant, Killian’s had expanded into the adjoining building and doubled the number of tables since it opened for business in the early ’60s.

Natalie Dvorak would not be going to Killian’s Bar and Grill on Sharon’s birthday; nor would Sharon. But without knowledge of May 7th being anyone’s birthday in particular, Natalie’s brother Henry was meeting an old friend for dinner at the restaurant in question.

It was no longer a working-class establishment. Over the past few years, the owners invested in redecoration to go along with the expansion and paid for it by raising prices. To justify higher pricing on the menu, Killian’s also revised the food choices. City employees and blue collar workers consuming hamburgers, ribs, and fried chicken were displaced by professionals dining on fish, steak, and duck. And the portions were smaller, a cost-effective measure for the management.

In his early fifties, Henry Dvorak was a full professor of English Literature at the University of Vermont. Like Natalie, he was short and had that prominent nose with Dvorak-blue eyes. Unlike his kid sister, Henry was somewhat rotund and bald. He had been married to Margaret, a London-born artist, for just over a quarter-century.

Wearing a gray flannel suit and a paisley tie, Henry was seated at a table with a view of the lake (another reason for higher prices was to keep up with commercial property costs at the waterfront). He ordered a glass of white wine and waited for Minerva Daniels to join him before placing a food order. His old friend had been vague about the reason she wanted to meet for dinner after a long drive all the way from New York City. But, as a successful playwright, Henry knew Minerva had a flair for the dramatic.

Henry had enough time to take a few sips of wine before Minerva walked into the dining room. She was small, with short blond hair and green eyes, wearing a saffron pants suit and carrying a brown shoulder bag.

Henry, Minerva said in her thick and husky voice, her vocal cords compromised by decades of cigarette smoke. Keep sitting!

She joined Henry at the table and smiled at him across the white tablecloth.

Sorry Margaret couldn’t join us, Minerva said. I just love hearing that West-End accent!

She’s immersing herself in it some more, Henry said. Over the pond to see her parents. My father-in-law seems to be in declining health.

Sorry to hear that.

Nothing critical at this point, Henry shrugged. He’s recovered before.

I’ll hope for the best. How are the girls?

Melanie’s still playing the rebel with under-employment in Boston. I keep thinking she’ll get it out of her system but it’s almost three years since she graduated.

You mean Melanie’s still a bike messenger?

Yes; dodging motor vehicle traffic in downtown Boston like a maniac.

Oh, dear! And Becky?

She’s the white sheep of the family, Henry answered with a smile. Following her old man into academia, I think.

Well, that’s nice.

A waiter came to their table. Minerva placed an order for a glass of scotch and then glanced over the menu as the young man went off to the bar.

Is the lamb good here? she asked.

More than passable. But you might be used to higher quality in the big city.

I’ll risk it.

It’s on me, anyhow.

No.

Yes.

But I asked to see you, Henry.

You are a guest in my town.

All right. What are you ordering?

Veal.

Several minutes later, after the waiter had delivered Minerva’s scotch and departed from their table with orders for the kitchen, Minerva began her explanation.

Henry, do you know Rhonda Lester?

Was she at Columbia with us?

No, I met her much later, in the theater. She’s not a professional. It’s her husband, Charles Lester who’s a director.

"Oh, so that’s why Lester sounded familiar. Didn’t he direct your play Symbiosis in New York?"

Minerva nodded.

"And Tolerance more recently. That was with the repertory production that toured Hartford and Boston. Between the two productions, Charles and Rhonda divorced."

I see.

Rhonda and I have the sisterhood of the discarded wives, Minerva said with a rueful smile. Charles had the damned cliché of leaving his wife of twenty-nine years for an absurdly ravishing Greek girl-actress not half his age.

Greek? Henry replied. A Hellenic national?

"Ethnicity, not nationality. But if you ever saw her, you’d know she’s not far from the olive groves. Jet-black hair and dark eyes. As a matter of fact, perhaps you did see her."

Oh?

"Did you not go to the Champlain Players revival of Disdain, the first in the trilogy?"

"Of course I did! I saw Disdain here and Symbiosis in New York. You mean this Helen of Troy was in the rep company’s Disdain?"

Think, Henry. My description…

Ah, she played Andrea, the daughter. Right?

If you still have the program, look up Delphine Psomas among the players and see her head shot.

That’s quite a name! They would’ve forced her to get a stage name forty or fifty years ago.

Del Psomas wrecked their marriage, Charles and Rhonda’s. Just as Claude left me eleven years ago. That’s why Rhonda came to me.

Came to you for what?

She and Charles have two kids, a son and a daughter. Max is twenty-four and his sister Danielle is nineteen. She’s at Middlebury.

And?

Max is missing.

Missing?

Since last month.

Where was Max living?

Here, in Burlington.

So you told Rhonda about me, a friend in Burlington?

Yes.

Minerva, dear, how am I supposed to help? I’m not a policeman. Has she called the police?

Neither Rhonda nor Charles want to get the police involved.

Why not?

It’s possible that their son might be involved in illegal activity. They don’t want Max found and arrested at the same time.

What sort of illegal activity?

Drugs. He was doing cocaine in Hartford. I know your own daughter went through something like that.

That was a long time ago, Henry said tersely.

My point is that you and Margaret saw that for what it was, an illness. Max might need treatment.

Minerva, Henry said impatiently. I’m not a policeman and I’m not a drug counselor.

You’re a born detective.

Nonsense. What makes you say that?

Your sister is a professional detective, isn’t she?

Natalie’s the police detective, not me.

And she’d be bound to enforce the law if she caught Max with narcotics, wouldn’t she?

Henry nodded gravely; he knew his sister was all cop.

"You could be flexible."

And because Natalie’s a State Police detective you think I have the makings for an amateur sleuth?

All that research you’ve done as an academic, that’s a form of detective work.

Oh, for Christ’s sake!

Simmer down, Henry.

I couldn’t do a thing about it until after the end of the semester.

When is that? Two weeks from now?

About a week.

I can wait.

You can wait?

I meant for us to do this together.

Minerva, you’re out of your mind, Henry sighed. Why don’t Max’s parents hire a private detective, someone licensed, if they don’t want law enforcement in the picture?

They want someone they can trust. Me.

And because you feel you can trust your old friend, I get their confidence by extension.

Exactly.

Charles and Rhonda, they both want this?

They’re parents first, Henry, antagonists second. You’re a parent. What if Melanie was missing?

Don’t say that!

I will say it, Henry. I remember how close you and Margaret did come to losing her.

Henry scowled and took a long sip of wine.

"And I will only say this once, he muttered. One detail you ought to remember was that Melanie’s lowlife boyfriend dealt cocaine. That’s dangerous. If Max is involved in something like that, a pair of bumbling amateurs who think they’re Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple won’t be anything but a pair of dead bodies before long."

Henry, if we get an inkling of serious criminals, then we bring in your sister or whoever has jurisdiction.

It’s a terrible, harebrained idea.

Think about it, Henry. Just don’t tell anyone. How long is Margaret in London?

At least a month.

Could I call you after the semester’s over and get your final word on my request?

Henry nodded slowly.

It had been nearly four years since Natalie went on an extended vacation. And that had been for the honeymoon with her second husband, Dan Moritz. Now, getting a jump on Memorial Day travel crowds, Natalie and Dan were packing for their out of state trip. They had planned for two weeks in a desert resort down in Sedona, Arizona.

Ever since a work-related trip to the Southwest to retrieve a fugitive from Vermont justice in the first weeks of 1985, Natalie had wanted to see the region again with Dan. It was finally set to happen.

Natalie’s supervisor, Lieutenant George Sweeney, had been enthusiastic about her taking some time off. When she had asked about who would cover for her, Sweeney told Natalie not to worry.

I’ll get out from behind my desk if I have to. Done it before.

While the State Police could function without one detective-sergeant, the town of Holbrook, nestled into the western side of the Green Mountains, population 212, had only one policeman: Town Constable Daniel Moritz. On the off chance that some police matter might come up during Dan’s vacation, the Holbrook Town Manager, Scott Benson, said he would open the police station for a few hours a week. That was actually a small office in Town Hall across from the Clerk.

Benson was a tall, thin septuagenarian who lacked the physical presence of Constable Moritz but was well-respected as a village elder. Officer Dan was also popular in town, something Natalie had mixed feelings about. She was proud that the man she loved was a leader of the community. But Natalie worried about women and girls finding value in Dan beyond his role as their local lawman.

He was Natalie’s age, mid-forties, and bald. Yet his face was reasonably handsome and he was over six feet tall. At the time Natalie had met Dan, he was solidly built, with shoulders broad enough to distract her. Yet Dan was softening around the middle and seemed to be apathetic about aging past his physical prime.

That hadn’t deterred Natalie from going after the married town cop and making him hers. She had been an outsider at the time and the unscrupulous episode had enraged most of Holbrook. Dan’s wife was the owner of Caswell’s grocery, an institution in the town; Michelle’s family had been there for four generations.

Time quelled the outrage and Natalie had moved into Holbrook with Dan, buying a wood framed, two-story house up on a ridge above the village. She was accepted and perhaps tolerated in the community.

Natalie would like to have taken credit for Dan’s physical changes in recent years. Her own weight-lifting and martial arts training were primarily for work but also boosted her self-esteem. It made Natalie attractive to Dan. Yet what had really motivated him to get back into shape was not his second wife but his favorite professional wrestler.

This was The Mighty Maple, a twenty year old woman of Amazonian dimensions. She had been the strongest teenage girl in her high school and perhaps all Vermont. After moving to Albany, New York, she had started to wrestle professionally while working a day job in a supermarket warehouse. Her given name was Elaine Moritz and she was Dan’s only child.

The weight room set up in the basement of Natalie and Dan’s house had been in response