The Blank Paper Murder: The Chornbrook Mysteries Book One

By George Chornbrook

George Chornbrook is the pseudonym of a person who wears many hats in his life. He has degrees in electrical engineering and in philosophy, worked as a researcher in an academic    institution and as a computer analyst in an investment company. He co-authored articles in science magazines, essays on current events in local newspapers and a series of children's stories about his English cocker-spaniel Sir Jeffrey D'Oreilland. His mystery writing was inspired by his granddaughter who reads a lot and knows a lot.

*****

The Book One of Chornbrook Mysteries are narratives of cases passing officially and unofficially through the New York office of "Deforge & Murphy, PIs". Derek DeForge, the Canadian born private investigator from New York, and his wife and unofficial partner Kyra would become involved in the series of tragic events when vacationing in the United States and abroad. "Forgive me, are you Mr. DeForge? Mr. Derek DeForge? My friend recognized you. Please help me - I have no one to ask..." As Derek's partner Sean Murphy, the veteran of the NYPD, had noticed several times, his friends had an uncommon ability to be in wrong places at right time. From other side, Kyra would never allow a good murder to pass...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638817505

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

The Virginia Beach Mystery

Murder Hunt in Poconos

Cast of Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Presque Park Mystery

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The Seneca Lake Mystery

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The Blank Page Murder

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The Karlovy Vary Mystery

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The Paris Adventures of DeForge & Murphy, PIs

The Miami Beach Mystery

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day SIX

Day SIX (cont.)

Last Day

cover.jpg

The Blank Paper Murder

The Chornbrook Mysteries

George Chornbrook

Copyright © 2022 George Chornbrook

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, business, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-63881-749-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-750-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my mother, Vera,

who published her last book at age ninety-five,

and

my lovely granddaughter Rachel,

who inspired me to do writing of my own…

The Virginia Beach Mystery

According to unwritten tradition, Memorial Day in America, officially held on the last Monday in May, unofficially starts at 3:00 p.m. on the preceding Friday.

On that day and that time, the traffic pattern all over the country—at least, in main cities—may be described with one word only: out!

It means that hundreds of thousands of cars would try to escape the city streets and set themselves on three-, four-, or six-lane highways.

If you live in Connecticut or Rhode Island or Massachusetts, your destination may be Cape Cod or New Hampshire. For New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, it could be Florida or Virginia Beach, and for Californians, it is Las Vegas.

Of course, for New Yorkers the South New Jersey or Long Island beaches are also on the list, but for a full-course weekend, farther is better…

Day one

For us—me, Derek DeForge, and my wife, Kyra—Virginia Beach was the place to remember. A few years ago, on Memorial Day weekend, we escaped to Virginia Beach, only to escape from Virginia Beach much sooner than we planned.

We started our vacation early in the morning to avoid the traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge, where a couple of lanes were always closed due to the permanent state of construction, destruction, and reconstruction.

Following I-95 South, we passed through the New Jersey turnpike with its toll booths, reached Philadelphia, skipped the exit to Atlantic City, and entered Delaware to avoid Washington, DC, where the holiday traffic was worse than in New York City.

Driving in Delaware was easy and monotonous; there were fields on the left, fields on the right, then there would be a single farm, and then the fields run again… The RT-13 after Dover was practically empty except for a few local cars that entered the road at one exit and left at the next one.

Eventually, the steady noise of the car engine hypnotized us, and we started to feel drowsy. To break the spell, we needed a stimulant. We started to look for a gas station or a McDonald's to get a cup of coffee, but we saw neither for miles and miles. Eventually, Kyra nervously asked me, Are you sure that we are not lost?

I strictly followed my Magellan GPS and the Road Atlas 2010. Nevertheless, the question was in order—we were hungry. Finally, in another ten miles, we reached Salisbury and stopped at the first small dinette to get our coffee and pizzas.

We passed Cape Charles and entered the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. It was growing late when we finally reached Virginia Beach. The evening had already dawned on the streets when we located our motel, the Sunset.

The only parking space available was close to the building, practically under the second-floor gallery. A large company was partying there.

We went inside. A young woman at the reception desk was visibly upset when we gave her our names and informed her that we had made a reservation a few days ago. She checked her computer, apologized profusely, and said that, unfortunately, by some mistake, our room had already been rented—it was a holiday weekend, and the large company had arrived earlier.

The only thing she could do was to recommend a couple of hotels on the boardwalk that might have some vacancies. Our deposits, she promised, would be fully refunded.

We went outside, and just as we stepped out, a couple of empty beer bottles were thrown from the balcony and landed in front of our car. There was laughter on the gallery—obviously, the partygoers considered it extremely funny.

We got the message. I started our car, and we turned back to Pacific Avenue. I thought that maybe it was better for us to find a place more quiet, more conventional…

We tried several hotels along the way but had no luck: there were either no vacancies or the rates were sky-high. Finally, I got the bright idea to suggest that we would pay for a whole week, not just for the weekend. It worked—we got a decent discount, and we got our room with a balcony looking right on the beach and the ocean all the way up to the horizon.

Day two

In the morning, we went to the restaurant. I love the breakfasts in the hotels with their variety of meals on offer. Passing the lobby, we saw some activity at the front desk. A police sergeant and a man in a light overcoat were talking to the desk clerk, who was shuffling through the registration cards. We had just brought our trays to a table when the man in the overcoat came to us.

Detective Pollack, he said and produced his badge. Good morning, folks. May I ask you some questions? Do you mind if I join you? You are from New York, right? And you came here after 10:00 p.m.?

That's correct, said Kyra. Something happened?

Pollack smiled and said, Just a routine checkup. It is holiday time, and we try to make sure that all our guests are safe and happy. You are here for vacation, right? Taking a break from the business routine? If it is not a secret, what is your line of business, miss…?

Kyra, Mrs. Kyra DeForge.

Yes, of course… I saw your registration card. Mr. and Mrs. DeForge, I presume?

Kyra smiled. It happens, Detective Pollack, that we are really married.

No offense, please. So back to your business. I am just curious.

"I am the executive VP in an advertisement company, and my husband is a PI in DeForge and Murphy, New York.

And, Detective Pollack, if this is about a body on the beach, the only thing I could tell you is that it was not there until 4:00 a.m., said Kyra.

I almost fell from my chair. She had not told me a thing that morning.

Darling, I did not want to spoil our vacation, she said, smiling.

Right. No body, even a dead body, would spoil our vacation, I mumbled.

How is it that you, Mrs. DeForge, could fix a time so positively? And you, Mr. DeForge, would you confirm your wife's observation?

Derek, Derek DeForge. Unfortunately, I slept like a log. It was a very long drive, and I felt that a shot or two of brandy would be in order… Now let me ask you, Detective, how it happens that you came to us directly from the reception desk.

You see, we got a tip. The tire tracks near the body were from the Lexus, and the only Lexus here was yours. Also, there was wet sand on your tires…

Let me assure you, dear Detective Pollack, sweetly said my wife, that we are not in the habit of dumping dead bodies on the beach and then spending a night in the nearby hotel.

Yes, I would not think so either, but still, how could it happen that you could fix the time?

That was simple, Detective, Kyra said meditatively. "I was always fascinated with the ocean and its waves coming to the shore, one after another, day after day, for millions of years. I think it started in a college with Shakespeare: ‘Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore…' I believe it is Sonnet LX.

So I woke around two o'clock and spent almost two hours on the balcony listening to the whisper of ocean waves. There was absolutely no activity on the beach, and I returned to bed at four o'clock. That is all.

So why did you assume that there was a body involved?

I looked through the window this morning again, and I saw a tent set on the beach and some activity around—including a police car. If it were a simple case of drowning, you do not expect to meet a detective.

Looks like you have more awareness about your surroundings than your husband.

They call it a woman's intuition, said Kyra with a smile.

By the way, Mr. DeForge, do you have a gun?

As a matter of fact, I do.

May I see it, please?

Sorry, it is locked in the safe of my New York office.

All right, I just wanted to make sure that we would have no shooting here.

Did you identify the victim? I asked.

"Yes, it was easy. Her name is Marina Reed from Hoboken. She had her purse with her driver's license, $120, and a key from her room at the Sunset Motel. She and some folks had registered there yesterday around 3:00 p.m.

"We talked to them, of course. They had a party there. They claim that after the party wore down, Marina and two other girls, Alice and Lora, decided to go to the beach and swim in the ocean—in the nude, so to say! Alice was driving her car. She said that when they arrived at the beach, they found the water was too cold.

So Alice and Lora decided to go back, but Marina said that she wanted to see the sunrise, and she stayed on the beach. Alice confessed that they drank some wine on the beach. The girls insisted that when they left, Marina was alive and well, maybe a little drowsy, said the detective.

That's strange, said Kyra. You don't assume that we took our car, drove to the beach, found a drunk woman there, and then killed her?

I assume nothing, said the detective gloomily. The fact is that someone took your car and left the tracks on the beach and that someone was possibly a murderer. I am trying to understand why it was your car that the murderer took. Would you mind if we searched your car?

Not at all, said Kyra. You could get a search warrant anyway. Here are the keys. She pulled the car keys from her handbag and gave them to the detective.

Thank you, said the detective, and turning to me, By the way, Mr. DeForge, do you have your keys?

I checked my pockets—the keys were not there. Wait a minute. I remember I put them on the nightstand in our room.

Would you mind if we go to your room and check?

We went to the elevator. When we came to the fourth floor, we found that the maid had already made our room. There were the keys on the nightstand.

Did you see them this morning? asked the detective.

I do not remember. How about you, sweetheart? I asked Kyra. Did you notice if the keys were here in the morning?

Kyra had a puzzled look on her face. No, I don't remember either.

Okay, guys, you took this room for a week, so enjoy your stay. We will be in touch.

He gave me his card and left, taking our car keys with him.

The morning papers mentioned the accident on the beach. It was assumed that a young woman was in a company of partygoers, that somewhere late at night, she and her friends decided to go to the beach for fun. They came there, wandered along the empty beach, and decided to go back. The woman said that she would stay on the beach. The company left. The woman collapsed. The police have already interviewed the company.

The police refused to disclose the identities of her friends, who denied any knowledge about what had happened after they left. No medical information was disclosed, but it was stated that no violence was involved. No mention about a car or someone who met her on the beach. Something was fishy about all the stories.

Kyra asked me, Does her name tell you anything?

Search me.

Kyra said thoughtfully, Somehow to me, her name sounds familiar. Did you notice that the newspaper did not say anything about her being dead or what the cause of death was?

I said, "I wonder what the police have already found about this Marina. They of course contacted the Hoboken PD and maybe even the FBI. Strange thing that Pollack was positively vague talking about her.

My feeling is that she is not dead. Maybe she is unconscious or under sedation…

Anyway, it is a nasty business. Kyra frowned. Someone was undoubtedly aiming for us. The question is who is the target—you or me? Let us start from the beginning. Who knew about our plans?

In my office, my secretary and Johnson from accounting. And Sean, of course, said I. What about you?

I would say a couple of girls from public relations, and of course Mark…

Who is Mark?

Oh, he came recently from the field office, got a promotion… Wait a minute—he was from Hoboken!

That required action. I found a Laundromat that had copy machines and fax. I made copies of articles from three newspapers and added some questions related to Marina and Mark. I faxed it to Sean in our office marked Urgent.

We met in the restaurant on the beach over the Fisherman Plate and Beer, exchanged our activities. I had already received Sean's report on the Hoboken angle.

He confirmed everything that we expected the police to already know—except the links between Marina, Mark, and, eventually, Kyra.

Marina Reed was a fashion designer. She had had her own small clientele. She was also the owner of a fashionable beauty parlor in downtown Hoboken. Mark knew her through some common friends and made her our client. Whether they were lovers was an open question.

There were some troubles with the models she used. One of the models was arrested recently on drug charges. Nothing specific was found, and she was released.

Not very encouraging… Why Virginia Beach? Why us?

Still, the drugs are the usual suspects in the homicide.

Let's assume that there were drugs involved, said Kyra.

I think there was something deeper. What do you know about Mark?

Not much. He worked as a salesman in New Jersey, got a good record, got a transfer to the main office in New York.

What was his job, actually?

"Look, we are in the advertising business. We need clients. Every small thing helps. You know when the Internet grabs all ads, it is a tough job to compete. Mark had a touch. He was tough. He was a salesman par excellence. He would tell everyone the kind of fantastic service we provided and painted a rosy picture of the profits they could expect working with us. He would explain that the local businesses needed more than just the local presentation, and with our ads, their business would flourish and grow.

He did not bring million-dollar accounts. But he was good in bringing many $10,000 and $20,000 accounts. He had a lot of local contacts, crisscrossed the state often, maintained old accounts, and looked for new ones.

Did he favor a particular type of business?

Interestingly, many of his clients were beauty parlors, spas, barbershops, small boutiques, doctors' offices—something like that.

I did not know that a barbershop could afford a ten-thousand-dollar advertisement service. I would say their limit would be $500 at most.

"Yes, of course, but he did have a couple of