Lanterns of Death: A Mitch and Al Mystery

By Glenn Ickler

Timing is everything, says St. Paul Daily Dispatch photographer Alan Jeffrey when he's asked why somebody always gets killed when he and Daily Dispatch reporter Warren "Mitch" Mitchell are visiting Martha's Vineyard. Mitch and Al and their cartoonist companion, Dave Jerome, are on the celebrated vacation isle to testify for the prosecution in the trial of identical twins Ima and Ura Jewell, who are accused of murdering Dave's uncle, Walter Jerome. The twins, who were Walter's financial advisers, had also tried to murder this answer-hungry trio after confessing that they'd killed Walter because he'd caught them stealing $500,000 from his account. As the trial of the glamorous twins begins, a new mystery arises when two visitors from St. Paul are shot to death by a professional killer on Grand Illumination Night on the grounds of the historic Martha's Vineyard Camp Meeting Association. While Mitch, Al and Dave puzzle over who hired the killer and why, another shooting takes place in the same Campgrounds cottage. The search to identify the person who paid the killer leads the three friends, who fashion themselves as The Three Musketeers, into a fast and furious deep water boat chase and a too-close encounter with a fast-moving airplane. Meanwhile, the murder trial moves on toward an uncertain verdict as the defense goes on offense against Mitch, Al and Dave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781478793410

Glenn Ickler

GLENN ICKLER has had a long career in newspapers as a reporter, feature writer, theater critic, columnist and editor in Minnesota and Massachusetts. He was the leader of an editorial page staff that was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and has won numerous awards for his writing. A native of Minnesota, he now resides in a tiny and historic town west of Boston and takes occasional cruises on the scenic and historic rivers of Europe. 

Book preview

1

DEJA VIEW

I don’t believe it, said Alan Jeffrey, better known as Al.

I told you he would be, said David Jerome, better known as Dave.

"You were right; the son of a bitch is naked again," said Warren Mitchell. That’s me, better known as Mitch.

The approaching son of a bitch in question was Richard Rylander, who had been the attorney for Dave’s late uncle, Walter Jerome. Rylander had met the three of us in the stark staring nude on the same Martha’s Vineyard beach the previous October to discuss Walter Jerome’s last will and testament with Dave, who was his uncle’s only surviving relative.

Dave, Al and I worked together at the St. Paul Daily Dispatch for many years as staff cartoonist, photographer and reporter, respectively, until Dave was laid off two years ago. Now he was free-lancing his cartoons, but we were still buddies and we had traveled as a trio when Dave’s uncle, a former Daily Dispatch editor, was murdered on Martha’s Vineyard.

This time we were meeting Rylander on Lucy Vincent Beach on a hot, sunny August Saturday afternoon. At this time of the year, Lucy Vincent Beach is open only to Chilmark residents with identifying stickers on their cars, but Rylander, who lives in Chilmark, had left instructions with the attendant to admit us as his guests. We had discussed the possibility of finding him in the same state of undress as before, and had unanimously expressed hope that the lawyer, who was fifty-five, fat and floppy, would at least put on a Speedo for this occasion. No such luck.

The purpose of this meeting was to discuss our testimony in the upcoming murder trial of identical twin sisters with the improbable names of Ima Jewell and Ura Jewell, who were Walter Jerome’s financial advisers. They had confessed—or should I say boasted?—to Dave, Al and me that they’d poisoned both Walter Jerome and Walter’s slightly loopy friend, Teddy Brewster. They had made this statement while preparing to kill all three of us, but we had foiled their plot in the best tradition of Alexandre Dumas’ Three Musketeers. Now we were to be the key witnesses for the prosecution in the sisters’ trial for the first murder, the poisoning of Walter Jerome.

Because our testimony was so vital, we wanted to discuss possible defense attorney questions and tricks with an island-savvy lawyer before we were called to the witness stand. Unfortunately, Rylander was the only person we knew on Martha’s Vineyard who met that qualification. Still, we couldn’t help wishing he’d dress even a little bit modestly to discuss a serious situation, even though he insisted that we meet him on a clothing-optional beach.

However, we’d been told that you take what you can get on Martha’s Vineyard, so we all shook the naked man’s outstretched hand. Fortunately, all three of us were taller than the stubby five-foot-six-inch Rylander, so we could direct our gaze across the top of his suntanned bald head. With my eyes so directed, my hand almost missed his, which at the level they would have passed would have been disastrous.

Thanks for coming all the way out here, gentlemen, Rylander said. I hang out here on weekends because I can’t stand to be cooped up indoors all the time. I’ve got some blankets spread out for our little conference. Come on with me. He turned his back and waddled away. We followed the bountiful bouncing brown buns along the beach, passing a few other sunbathers, mostly men, who were hanging out as completely as our host. We felt out of place, dressed in T-shirts and shorts, but we did our best to ignore the sunbaked sideshow.

Eventually Rylander stopped at a triangular cluster of unoccupied beach blankets spread across the sand. A black briefcase lay on one of the blankets. Rylander seated himself on that blanket, facing the other two, and placed the briefcase on his lap. All three of us uttered quiet sighs of relief and arranged ourselves across the other two blankets. The writing on my T-shirt actually said: KEEP CALM and accept reality. Here was reality, laid bare before us, and I was gritting my teeth in an effort to keep calm.

Nice to see you gentlemen again, Rylander said. What precisely can I do for you on this glorious summer day?

Well, Mister Rylander, we’re hoping you can give us some hints on how the defense might try to trip us up or discredit our testimony, Dave said. We’ve never been witnesses in a murder trial before.

Please call me Dick, Rylander said. His lack of wearing apparel should have reminded us that he’d always preferred to be a Dick. I think your biggest problem will be the defense’s attempt to find inconsistency in your testimony. They will pick apart what each one of you says, sentence by sentence, trying to find even the smallest difference so they can claim you’re making this all up.

So we each need to listen closely to what the other guys say on the stand? Dave asked.

Can’t do that. Witnesses aren’t allowed to listen to other witnesses’ testimony.

So what then? We’ve all got to memorize the same answers to whatever questions we expect?

Not quite, but almost. You want your testimony to be consistent, but you don’t want to sound like you’ve rehearsed it.

Jeez, now we’ve got to be actors? Al said. We’re real people, not actors; like in the Chevy commercials.

There’s always plenty of acting going on during a big trial, Rylander said. Lawyers do it all the time—putting on a show of being mad or surprised or indignant or whatever they think will impress the jury at that particular moment.

I had covered enough major trials as a reporter for the St. Paul Daily Dispatch to know that he was correct. I’ve seen defense lawyers in action who could have made it big in Hollywood. In fact, my lawyer wife, Martha Todd, worked at a law firm headed by a sure-fire Oscar winner.

So what do you suggest we do? I asked. We don’t have much time. The trial starts Monday.

All they’ll do Monday is start picking a jury, Rylander said. Given that every warm body on this island is familiar with the case, it might take two or three days to find fourteen people who claim they can be unbiased and open-minded.

Fourteen? Dave said. I thought juries were twelve.

In a trial this big, they’ll want at least two alternates in case anybody gets sick or has an accident of some kind. They might even go for more. The prosecutor sure as hell doesn’t want a mistrial on account of insufficient jurors.

Can they find that many? I asked. I can imagine the news coverage has been intense with two murders and two very glamorous defendants. Ima and Ura Jewell were stunning redheads in their early thirties with movie star bodies and long shapely legs.

They’ll be bringing in prospective jurors from Cape Cod and Nantucket as well. Nantucket is also part of Dukes County, which is subject to Cape and Islands District Court. Nantucket is a neighboring, smaller island located southeast of Martha’s Vineyard.

They don’t have newspapers or TV on Nantucket? Al said.

They don’t pay as much attention to what’s happening on the Vineyard, Rylander said. Nantucketers believe that they’re above all that. Their saying is that God made Nantucket. We say that God made Nantucket but he lives on the Vineyard.

Can God afford Vineyard real estate prices? Dave asked. His late uncle had willed him a so-called cottage that was assessed at eight-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. He’d been told it would sell for a million.

God hasn’t got a prayer, Al said.

Way over God’s head, I said.

God was here before the prices went up, Rylander said.

Hymn bought it for a song? Al said.

I’m taking note of that, I said.

So when should we expect to be called to do our thing in court? Dave asked.

There’ll be several witnesses ahead of you, Rylander said. The prosecution will lay the foundation for your testimony by calling the police officers who arrested the defendants and questioned them, anybody who saw them holding you three at gunpoint on the dock and getting away in their boat, and the medical examiner who found the arsenic in your uncle—and in poor old Teddy Brewster, although Teddy won’t be mentioned in this trial. They’re doing that separately. Might not get to the first one of you until Friday or even next week, depending on how long those people are on the stand.

I hear the defense attorney is really a tough one, I said. I’d been told this by Martha’s Vineyard Chronicle staff writer Alison Riggs, whose brother, Lawrence Riggs, was the district attorney prosecuting the twins.

Oh, yeah, Rylander said. Robert Fitzgerald King is one of the premiere defense lawyers in Boston. He’s won not guilty verdicts or reduced sentences for some real bad-ass people. And he doesn’t come cheap. The Jewells must have dangled a shitload of their stolen money under his nose.

Through their investment agency, which the twins called Double Your Money, the Jewells had bilked some of their investors, including Dave’s Uncle Walt, out of millions of dollars. Walt Jerome was murdered because he’d discovered the theft from his account and had threatened to go to the police. Poor old Teddy Brewster, a loony old homeless man who spent his summers in a tent on Walt’s wooded Chappaquiddick property, was killed when he demanded hush money from the Jewells after Walt told him about the theft.

Won’t the stolen money go back to the victims? I said.

That’ll be a whole new trial, or maybe a set of civil suits, if the Jewells won’t say where they’re hiding it.

And what’s his name—King—will defend them and collect more of the stolen goods.

That’s the way it works, Rylander said. But that’s not your problem. You’re wondering about the questions you’ll be asked. Most of them will be the same ones you answered when you wrote out your statements—you all gave written statements to the police, didn’t you?

Yes, but that was way back last October, Dave said. Who can remember all that?

Okay. Tell you what I’ll do for you guys. I’ll make up a list of questions I think both the prosecution and the defense will ask you and give them to you at my office Monday morning. That’ll give you a few days to look them over, refresh your memories and standardize your answers.

Works for me, Dave said. Al and I nodded in agreement.

Okay. Now which one of you is officially hiring me?

We looked at each other. We hadn’t thought about that. What does it matter? Dave asked.

I need to know where to send my bill.

We looked at each other again. We hadn’t thought about that either. You might find a lawyer who forgoes his swimsuit but you’ll never see one who forgoes his billable hours. And on the beach, no less. After an uncomfortable silence, Dave said, I guess it would be me because it was my uncle who got killed.

We’ll all chip in, I said. Mitch Mitchell, Santa Claus in August.

We will? Al asked.

Of course we will. Remember? One for all and all for one has been our motto right from the start of this craziness.

The three musketeers ride again, said Dave. We shouted hola! in unison and high-fived each other. Thirty yards away, two naked women with all-over tans on crinkly skin turned toward us and shook their gray heads in dismay.

We had adopted the three musketeers’ shtick the previous year, even though we didn’t look like Alexandre Dumas’ originals: Athos, Porthos and Aramis. We are more like the three stair steps, with me the tallest at six-one, Al the shortest at five-nine and Dave in the middle at five-eleven. Al and I are brunettes, and we both sport dark moustaches and beards, while Dave is blond and clean-shaven. We all waved gallantly to the crinkly-skinned women as we stood up to say goodbye to Dick Rylander.

2

UP A CREEK

Oh, don’t get up, I said as I bent at the waist to offer Rylander a parting handshake. With his free hand he had started to move the brief case off his lap as if preparing to stand up.

Yes, please don’t get up on my account, Dave said as he reached down to shake the lawyer’s hand.

See you, Dick, Al said as he took his turn. No need to get up. We all wanted Rylander to keep the briefcase right where it was.

Come to my office Monday at ten, Rylander said. I should have a list ready for you by then. Have a nice day, gentlemen.

The day got nicer as we got farther from the nudist colony, reached the parking lot and got into our vehicle, a forest green Dodge minivan rented from a dour Oak Bluffs agent named Marty. It was the same van we’d rented from Marty the previous October, and Marty had made the same sales pitch for a week-long contract as he had back then when we were renting a day or two at a time.

It’s $159, plus the tax, for a day, or $998, plus the tax, for a week, Marty had said. Weekly rate’ll save you over a hundred if you’re gonna be here more than five days.

That’s thirty bucks a day higher than last fall, Dave had said.

I ain’t the one that sets the prices.

We’ll take it for a week.

Marty’s lips had curved slightly into the hint of a never-before-seen smile. You’re the boss, he’d said.

Dave had sealed the deal with his credit card, collected the paperwork and the keys, and driven us back to his inherited Oak Bluffs cottage. Although my Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines a cottage as (1) a small single-storied house or (2) a small summer house, Dave’s cottage had two stories, four bedrooms, three bathrooms and an enormous wraparound porch, and it had been occupied summer, winter, spring and fall by Dave’s late uncle. I guess New Englanders use a different dictionary than the rest of the English-speaking world.

Now, upon returning to the cottage from the skin show at the beach, we found our wives, modestly dressed in a rainbow assortment of shorts and halters, lollygagging in rocking chairs on the wide front porch. Brown-haired, brown-eyed Cindy Jerome, the shortest of the three women, was clad all in white. Carol Jeffrey, a slender blonde of medium height, wore a lavender top and black shorts. Tall and sleek Martha Todd (she hadn’t changed her surname to Mitchell), whose coffee-with-cream complexion and jet black hair came from her Cape Verdean heritage, wore a pale pink top above light blue shorts that were molded to her elegantly-sculptured derriere.

Cindy, who was a college administrator, and Martha, a lawyer, had each taken two weeks of vacation to be with us. Carol, a junior high school teacher, was on her long summer break. This was Saturday, August 10, and Carol could also stay on Martha’s Vineyard for two weeks before going back to prepare for the start of classes.

One member of our usual porch-sitting group was missing: my longtime feline companion, Sherlock Holmes. Martha had suggested that name for the stray, neutered, black-and-white Tomcat that had adopted me through backdoor feedings a dozen years ago. Sherlock had accompanied us on three prior visits to Martha’s Vineyard, but was now at an age and physical condition that we feared he could no longer handle the flights to and from Boston. We’d left him with our next door neighbor (and landlady) Zhoumaya Jones.

Because of a motorcycle accident, Zhoumaya lived in a wheelchair, and Sherlock had greeted her by leaping into her lap upon their first meeting. No longer a leaper, Sherlock now required assistance to crawl up to that wide, cushiony lap, but widowed Zhoumaya welcomed his companionship during our absence.

As Al and I followed Dave up the porch steps, we were greeted by a question from Cindy. Was he naked?

As the proverbial jaybird, Dave said.

A short, fat jaybird, Al said.

A very tan jaybird, I said. "Apparently he—as he describes it—hangs out a lot on that beach in his birthday suit."

You should report him to the Bar Association, said my lawyer wife.

For what? I asked. Is being naked on a clothing-optional beach an offense against the legal profession?

It’s very unprofessional to meet with clients that way.

I know that, but he was nice enough to meet with us on a Saturday. He could have made us wait until Monday to see him dressed in his professional best in his office.

Didn’t his nakedness make you uncomfortable?

Of course it did, but this isn’t Minnesota; it’s Martha’s Vineyard.

We should have gone with you and watched his reaction, Carol said.

I think you’d have been much more embarrassed than him, Al said. The guy was right at home waddling around that beach among women—also naked, by the way—with nothing on but a suntan.

So, other than a lesson in juris imprudence, what did you get from him? Cindy asked.

An appointment for ten o’clock Monday morning to pick up a list of questions that the prosecution and defense might ask, Dave said.

And a warning that we need to be consistent in our answers but not sound like we rehearsed them, Al said.

That’s just standard witness advice, Martha said.

He expects us to become professional actors, Al said.

That’s only equity, I said.

Ah, in union there is strength, he said.

He also told us something that’s going to cause a real problem for me, I said. As a witness, I can’t listen to the other witnesses.

This was a real problem because I had been assigned by City Editor Don O’Rourke to cover the trial for the Daily Dispatch. The story was of interest in Minnesota because Walt had been the editor—a very popular editor—of the Daily Dispatch for many years before succeeding his father as editor of the Martha’s Vineyard Chronicle. His murder had been a major story in St. Paul and the trial of his accused killers, with three Minnesota journalists as star witnesses, needed to be covered. How was I going to report on the proceedings if the only testimony I could listen to was my own?

That does put you up the creek without a paddle, Al said.

Paddle, shmaddle, I won’t even have a canoe. And you’re also going to be floating outside the mainstream with your camera. Al is the best photographer at the Daily Dispatch and he’d been assigned to shoot everything possible during the trial.

I can still shoot people going in and out of the courthouse. I don’t have to know what anybody has said inside.

So what are you going to do? Martha asked me.

I wish I knew, I said. And just like that, the answer appeared before us.

3

A PERFECT PADDLE

A light blue Chevy sedan stopped in front of the cottage and a woman got out from behind the wheel. She walked around the front of the car and came up the sidewalk toward us. She was tall, about five-ten, and slender, with curves in all the right places. She was not quite thirty years old. She was auburn-haired and blue-eyed. She was dressed in a short-sleeved white blouse, open at the throat, and gray and black vertically-striped shorts. She was Alison Riggs, staff writer for the Martha’s Vineyard Chronicle.

I think I see my paddle, I said.

Hi, remember me? the woman said. "Alison Riggs. From the Chronicle."

I met her at the top of the porch steps and said, How could we forget you? It was you who labeled us the three stooges last fall. She had taken our picture for the Chronicle and had referred to us as three stooges in a conversation with another Chronicle reporter, who accidentally revealed the comment to me.

Are you going to hold that against me forever? Alison asked.

Only when it’s to my advantage, I said. Welcome aboard. I reached for her hand and led her onto the porch. Al and Dave got up and shook Alison’s hand and we introduced her to our wives, who had gone back to Minnesota before we met Alison during our October adventure.

We drew seven white wicker porch chairs into a semi-circle and when everybody was seated I asked, "So, Alison from the Chronicle, what brings you to our doorstep on this fine August Saturday when you could be on the beach or in your cute little kayak?"

I was hoping you guys would be here so I could get an interview before the big trial starts next week, she said.

Is it proper for witnesses to talk to reporters before the trial in Massachusetts? I asked.

I don’t expect you to give me an advance on your testimony. I just want some thoughts on the case.

I wouldn’t do that, said Martha. The defense could accuse you of tainting the jury pool before the trial even begins.

Martha is a lawyer, I said to Alison. I always take her legal advice.

That’s the only kind of advice he takes, Martha said.

The paper doesn’t come out until next Friday, Alison said. By then the jury will have been picked, and they’ll have been told not to read or listen to anything about the trial.

Still not smart for witnesses to say anything about the case to the press before they testify, Martha said.

I could see Alison’s suntanned face taking on a reddish hue. I have something better than an interview to offer you, I said.

What would that be?

I have a proposition for you.

Right here in front of your wife?

Not that kind of proposition. I explained my trial coverage dilemma and said, "I was thinking that as long as you’ll be covering the trial for your weekly paper, you could also do a daily story on the testimony for the St. Paul Daily Dispatch and I could add background and color or what have you. We could share a byline and you would get paid by St. Paul as well as by the Chronicle."

Alison’s eyebrows went up and she stared at me for a moment before she said, That does sound better. Could I really do that?

I’d have to clear it with my city editor but I don’t see any reason that he wouldn’t go along with that plan. It’s a lot better than me trying to grab witnesses as they leave the courthouse and asking them to rehash what they said. Especially defense witnesses, if there are any. Are you up for it?

Why wouldn’t I be? Bylines in a big daily paper and more money for the same hours of sitting in the same chair? I’d be crazy to turn you down.

Okay, I’ll run it by my city editor first thing Monday morning and we can begin teaming up as soon as he says yes.

You’re sure that’s what he’ll say?

Don is a very practical man. He wants the best possible story and this is the best possible way to get it.

You’ll know for sure on Monday? Alison said.

Don gets in at five o’clock St. Paul time, which is six o’clock here, I said. Give me your number and I’ll be calling you before you leave your office for the courthouse. We can iron out the details later that day.

Alison popped out of her chair, reached into her purse, pulled out a business card and handed it to me. Call my cell number. I’ll be going to court from home, without stopping at the office.

I took the card in my left hand, shook her hand with my right hand and said, It’s a deal. By the end of the trial you’ll be rich and famous, like, uh, what’s his name who covered the Scopes monkey trial way back in the nineteen-twenties.

H. L. Mencken, she said.

Hey, you know your history.

I read about him in J-school. Anyway, I guess I’ll head out now if you guys aren’t going to talk to me today.

Oh, we’ll talk to you; just not about the trial.

I’ll let you have some peace and quiet here for the weekend. I’ll bet there will be plenty of other reporters bugging you next week. Ta-ta, everybody. She gave a queenly wave, went down the steps and practically danced her way to her car.

Ta-ta? said Martha.

I think that’s New England for aloha, I said.

You think she’s mature enough for this job? Cindy asked.

We talked to her last fall and I’ve read her stuff, I said. I’m sure she can handle it. Not only that, but the prosecutor is her brother, which gives her nice rapport on that side.

Not so much on the other side, though, Martha said.

Maybe we won’t tell them.

I’m sure they already know.

You mean that lawyers keep tabs on reporters who cover their trials? I said.

Of course they do, Martha said. You should see what our office has on you.

I hope it includes that I’m married to the city’s most brilliant and beautiful woman.

That’s just the beginning, Martha said.

4

GOOD NEWS AND BAD

I have bad news and good news, I said to City Editor Don O’Rourke at six-fifteen (Eastern Daylight Time) Monday morning. I had given him fifteen minutes to get settled into his chair with the first of many cups of coffee in his hand.

Sounds like you want to give me the bad news first, Don said.

"I do. The bad news is that