Death is Not Forever

By N S Patrick

A soldier reported killed-in-action in 1918 is a drowning victim in a boathouse in 1923 Boston. A young lady missing for five weeks is a drowning victim and surfaces in the same boathouse. As children, they were neighbors.

The cases are assigned to Detective O'Meara and Sergeant Parker, who realize their limitations when dealing with Boston's upper crust. O'Meara is of Irish descent, and Parker, although a proper born and raised Bostonian, is a policeman.

Ione, Archie, and Tango, a greyhound whose nose finds clues, are called upon to help cut through the elitist barrier. Archer was born and raised on Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill. Because he is a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, commonly referred to as a WASP, he can open doors denied the police.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781613099049

Book preview

Prologue

On the afternoon of May 7, 1915, the British ocean liner Lusitania was torpedoed by a German submarine off the south coast of Ireland. Within 20 minutes, the vessel sank to rest on the bottom of the Celtic Sea. The ship was unarmed, and not a state of war threat.

President Woodrow Wilson had his excuse to get America into a European conflict.

On April 2, 1917, he went before a joint session of Congress to request a declaration of war against Germany. Congress declared war on April 6, 1917.

During America’s involvement in The Great War, April 1917 to November 1918, 5,584 American servicemen were charged and convicted of desertion. As a result, 24 received the death sentence. However, President Wilson commuted their sentences to prison terms.

One

France, August 1918

Private Henry Crawford standing in a trench, his back against the earthen wall, watched a rat scurry along the dirt floor and disappear into an opening in the front wall of sandbags. A fresh recruit entered from the rear of the bunker and looked around. Over here, guy, Henry said and motioned the fledgling warrior to join him.

The newcomer smiled and said, I ain’t got no buddies in the Army yet, so I thank you for being welcoming like, and as Mama says, people being nice to you is friends. He stretched out his hand, and the men shook. "A firm handshake, sir. That means you’re honest. Name’s Jackson after Mr. Thomas Jonathan Stonewall Jackson, and I just come in off ‘n the truck. Pride crept into his voice. Where I’m from is Waycross in the state of Georgia, and I’m a-goin’ to make the home folks proud of me. He propped his rifle against the wall of sandbags. Where you from, sir?"

Boston. The name’s Henry, but remember a fact of Army life, you only call a superior, sir.

I’ll remember that good piece of learning. Boston? That’s way up north, ain’t it?

Way up north, said Henry, holding back a grin.

You here to kill Germans? I’m goin’ get me plenty of ‘em. They’ve gotten to behavin’ real mean against the world.

Having listened from a few feet away, Private Nolan Fielding walked to the abandoned rifle, grabbed the weapon, and thrust the firearm into Jackson’s hands. Don’t you ever leave this piece where others might take it. You want to kill Germans—you can’t if you don’t have a weapon. You need something to fire bullets, and you need something to hold a bayonet.

Jackson, this is private Nolan Fielding, said Henry, he’s teaching you a lesson. In war, readiness is, he was about to say paramount but simplified the word to important.

How old are you? asked Nolan, looking at the babyface. Why are you in the Army?

Enlisted the day I turned eighteen four months back, said Jackson. Told Ma and Pa I was goin’ to save our republic. Ma, she cried, and Pa, he walked out to the pig trough.

You should’ve stayed put, Nolan hissed, and we shouldn’t be in this mess. When we tossed crates into Boston Harbor, the yoke of Britain went out with the tide.

Kid, said Henry, put your back against this wall, sit, and listen. Private Jackson obeyed and sat with Private Henry to his left and Private Nolan to his right. When the call comes to fix bayonets, stand ready.

Nolan added, When we go over, move, move, move.

What’d ya mean?

A moving target, said Henry, is harder to hit than a fool shifting from one foot to the other, wondering what to do.

And, said Nolan, when you see a Hun coming at you, drop on your stomach, aim, and fire. Don’t hesitate. React!

Well, now, I, do thank you for this lesson, and now don’t you be frettin’ none. I’ll guard myself and move faster than pigs a-headin’ for the trough.

Henry held back a laugh, but he could not keep a smile from his face. Jackson’s South seemed to have an expressive colloquialism for every situation.

Jackson reached into his tunic and pulled out paper, tobacco, and matches.

No, said Nolan in a low growl, don’t light up in the trench.

Why?

See the top of the sandbags? There could be a German creeping up on his stomach to the trench. He’s the one the sentries miss. When you strike a match, you’re a target, and you get sent home in a box.

Jackson tucked the paper and tobacco back into the tunic. You know a lot. How many times you fought?

Enough to wish this damnable war would disappear.

You have a girlfriend? Henry asked. Someone waiting for you at home?

Jackson’s face lit up. Sure do. Her name’s Ellen Mae Sue, I call her Elly, and when I get back, she’ll be a-waitin’ at the train station to give me sugar, and well, me and her, you see, are goin’ to marry up and raise us five li’l ones. At first, we’ll help Ma and Pa at the farm, but then, later, we’ll get us a place of our own, only I don’t want to slop no hogs. I want to have us some Holsteins. Do you know they give the most milk? More than Guernseys or Jerseys. Yes, it’s a fact. They do.

Twilight gave way to darkness, and three soldiers fell into fitful sleep.

AT DAYBREAK, SERGEANT Gibson called, Fix bayonets.

The sound of clasps snapping onto metal barrels echoed in the trench.

The sergeant called, Ready.

With Jackson sandwiched between, Henry and Nolan stood at the wall for the signal.

Stay with us, said Nolan, but not too close. Don’t give the Huns a large target.

Jackson nodded. Like them French fighters. We’re a team.

It took a moment for Henry to understand, then he said, "The Three Musketeers, are we? So be it."

Henry and Nolan glanced at each other and understood a need to watch the soldier from Georgia.

The command came.

A line of fighters scaled the top, spread apart, and began advancing. As firing and bombing started from both sides, the smell of sulfur filled the air, and at first, Jackson stayed near his new friends zigzagging across no man’s land. He stopped.

Henry noticed and yelled, No! Move!

Jackson stood still, the rifle barrel pointing to the ground, then dropped face down.

Nolan and Henry grabbed the fallen comrade under the arms, and more from instinct than planned strategy, pulled him back toward the trench.

As the trio reached the edge of the dugout, Nolan said, Go ‘round behind.

Once out of the range and sight of Germans, they laid Jackson on his back. Henry ripped open the tunic. Blood pulsed from under the shirt then stopped. Private Crawford gently removed two ID tags from around the boy’s neck and said, Had the last name of Adkinson.

Waste, said Nolan, nothing but waste. No returning home to a hero’s welcome, no sugar from his girl, no li’l ones to raise, no Holsteins to milk. Waste.

Nolan stood. I’m not staying. My life is more important than Kaiser Wilhelm’s pride and President Wilson’s broken promise to keep us out of this madness.

What will you do?

Go home to Boston. My brother and I are the only ones left in the family. He’ll help me disappear and say nothing.

You can’t keep your name. The authorities don’t appreciate disappearing acts during a war.

Nolan deliberated. I had a distant cousin who died several years back. His name was James Henderson. My brother’s name is Jeremey Fielding, lives on Martha’s Vineyard Court, Number two. So, when you get back, if you get back, he’ll know how to reach a new James Henderson. He looked at Henry and forced a half-smile. I’ll tell my brother you can be trusted.

Nolan stood erect and gave a salute. Permission to leave.

Henry watched the figure in doughboy brown disappear over a mound. He looked back at the lad from Georgia and, as tears ran down his cheeks, said, I’ll stay with you until the wagon comes.

The fighting stopped and was followed by an eerie silence.

No, I’m not staying. Sorry, kid, you’re on your own. Henry placed his tags around the dead soldier’s neck and slipped Jackson’s disks into his tunic pocket. Goodbye, Stonewall.

He walked away from the trench, away from the smell of sulfur, away from the destruction. Then, after a mile, and in cadence to his step, he began singing, "Mademoiselle from Armentières Parlez-vous."

Two

December 30, 1923

Boston, Massachusetts

On his last day at Sutton Estates, Yates Huxworth stepped onto the boathouse dock to watch the sunrise. He stood sipping Seagram’s VO as a black sky became hues of red and orange, and Mr. Sun lifted himself over the horizon. My last sunrise in Boston, he said softly, then with near childlike anticipation, added, Tonight I’ll watch the sunset in Hartford. I studied the map, and there’s a good two-lane road all the way. There was a light spring to his step as he entered the boathouse and sat on a wooden bench to finish the whiskey.

This year, the winter weather had disobeyed standard patterns. From Sutton Estate to Boston Harbor, because of highs and lows of water levels, the Charles River remained free of an ice cover during the day throughout December.

Yates gazed into the dark water of the boat slip. His eye caught a form floating, snagged at a piling. He stood from the bench, dropped to his knees and, reaching into the water, pulled a young woman’s body onto the decking. Blue eyes stared blankly at the boathouse rafters, and bobbed chestnut hair fell back. Wrinkled snow-white skin suggested an extended time in the icy water. A deep-green jacket and black skirt offered modesty.

No, please, God, no, Yates howled, not my Brenda.

He ran to the bell mounted on the outside boathouse wall and, with fury, slammed the clapper back and forth.

Barbara Eliott appeared on the second-level porch in her robe, waved good morning, and indicated the coffee was ready by pointing to her cup.

With repeated arcing gestures, Yates raised both arms and summoned the twenty-eight-year-old to the river.

After acknowledging the summons with a second wave and a nod of her head, Barbara reentered the house.

Yates walked into the boathouse, slumped onto the wooden bench, and spoke as if Brenda could hear.

I should’ve left yesterday and planned to, you see, but decided I wanted one more sunrise. Got up this morning and walked the stone footpath surrounding the house. Remember, you helped me, what? Fifteen years back. You said, ‘I’m going to be a gardener like you,’ and we pushed small pebbles in wet cement circles. Took a week, it did, but we finished the job ’cause we always finished what we started.

He choked up, rose, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his eyes.

"I stood on the dock and watched today start at six fifty-seven ’cause that’s the time the Farmer’s Almanac told me to be here. Sometimes, you’d sneak out and come with me and clap when, as you would say, ‘Mr. Sun got himself up.’ You’d have cheered seeing today’s show, and I tell you, Ma Nature outdid herself this daybreak."

He looked through the open bay door at the calm water becoming ultramarine in color.

I’m going to have breakfast with your mother, sister, and Fiona before I leave to see all forty-eight states. The lights have been on in the house for an hour, so they’re ready.

The echo of a shoe striking the dock’s first plank leading to the boathouse reverberated., and Yates sprang from the bench.

This morning, Barbara had dressed in haste and pushed short brunette hair under a green Sou’wester hat. Blue eyes sat between a broad nose above thin lips in an oval face. She began talking as she approached, You said you’d ring the bell after watching the sunrise and be ready for breakfast. But what’s the emergency? The bell could wake the dead.

The groundskeeper, standing at six-foot, towered over petite five-foot-one Barbara. He sported a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue-green eyes. His face was permanently tanned with heavy character lines from years of outdoor work. He cupped her hands in his and said, I’m afraid Brenda’s in the boathouse.

She’s returned, has she. Stayed away for five weeks this time and no contact through Thanksgiving and Christmas, and mother worried into a state. She looked into the caretaker’s eyes. But you brought me here by ringing the emergency bell. What’d Brenda do? There was a giggle. I know, she stole a neighbor’s boat, did she? Yep, the rebel in the family, but this time I’m giving her a good piece of my mind.

Brenda has drowned, Yates said, keeping his voice steady. Found her in the river a few minutes ago.

Barbara started around Yates. He stopped her with his left arm. No. Go tell your mother and Fiona.

She struggled to pass.

He held firm.

Realizing her attempts could not compete against his strength, the effort stopped. How can I tell mother? She’s not in good health, and this could kill her.

You’ll find a way and, when you do, call the police. I’ll keep Brenda company till then.

He turned her around and, with a slight push to the back, sent her toward the house. Yates watched until Barbara passed through the downstairs doorway.

The Eliott residence was nicknamed the up-side-down house by locals. The family’s private rooms were on the ground floor, and entertaining took place on the upper floor. A wide porch surrounded the home on the second level. Turning slowly, ever so slowly, in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc he scanned the landscape he’d nurtured for thirty years. Then stepping back, he looked at the gambrel-roof-style boathouse painted forest green with white trim. Except for the bay entrance, a dock encircled the structure. Some evenings he and the housekeeper, Fiona, would sit on chairs facing west to watch the multi-hued sunsets, each with a glass of whiskey.

Walking into the boathouse and directing the narrative toward the dead girl, Yates said, The mechanic told me the Model-T Touring Car is fit for travel. I’m leaving this morning and seeing all forty-eight states. As the pamphlet says, going south to the Sunshine State of Florida to get outta the cold. He looked at Brenda and heaved his chest. Won’t be able to! Have to stay for your mother’s sake. Holding back tears, he asked, My little girl. Why’d you drown?

He looked up and, for a few seconds, examined the hull of a Six Metre Class sailboat suspended from the rafters with under keel straps. Then, illogically he thought, gotta get her ready for the spring and Barbara’s first sail.

His body sagged onto the bench, and he wept without shame.

Three

December 31, 1923

Archer Reed retrieved The Boston World from the stoop, looked over Commonwealth Avenue, and for a moment remembered 1923. In June, he met Ione, and together, with the help of Tango, a clue sniffing greyhound, two murders had been resolved. Shaking his head, he wondered, What will 1924 bring? He returned to the kitchen and began studying a financial column with the headline, FINANCIAL 1923 IN REVIEW. He made a mental note to check into a new stock, Luxor AB, home-based in Sweden. The company showed signs of growth, and he asked aloud, Eric Lindstrom, are you looking over my shoulder?

He reflected. Eric Lindstrom, the next-door immigrant neighbor from Sweden who, upon his death, had willed to Ione and him a speedboat named after his homeland islands, Åland. Yes, he mused, 1923 had been a year for lifestyle changes.

There was a faint sound only an animal owner or lover would understand. Archer opened the back door, and Tango, a fawn-color greyhound, trotted in, drank from her water bowl, snorted, and continued down the hallway to her settee in the parlor to begin a second morning’s nap.

While Tango snoozed and Archer read downstairs, upstairs, Ione Wallace searched through the bedroom closet and chose a simple, straight line, emerald-green outfit suitable for daywear. The dress was chic and understated and, because she sewed the garment on her Singer machine, the fabric hung smartly on a svelte five-foot-two frame. She seated herself at the vanity and applied makeup sparingly but enough to accent blue eyes under bobbed auburn hair. There are enough flappers, she thought, I’m not joining the sisterhood.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror and, for the moment, remembered standing on the eastern plain of Colorado and placing a columbine on a fresh mound of dirt.

KONSTANTINOS KRITIKOS

- d. 1922

Ione spoke the Greek word for grandfather and said, "Goodbye, Papous. I sold the Double K Ranch. I’m off to see a world I know only from magazine photographs."

She left the gravesite and bid farewell to the cook, María, the foreman, Luther, and the ranch hands, all of whom would stay with the new owner. After a final wave, and holding a large travel handbag, she entered a courtesy car from the Brown Palace Hotel for the ride to Denver. The next morning, seated in a train heading east, she would bid a farewell to the Centennial State.

Ione blinked and was back, seated at her vanity in the brownstone.

She stood and said lightheartedly, It is time to tease the birthday boy.

After descending the staircase, she gave Tango a pat, walked the hallway to the kitchen, and with a playful tone in her voice, said, New Year’s Eve, and the eve of your birthday. Tomorrow, you’ll be a doddering old man. Goodness. Twenty-four.

Looking at Ione through blue eyes in a long face under sandy hair, Archer replied, My bones are creaking.

Explain, said Ione, pouring a cup of coffee, this person who telephoned at seven-thirty and invited himself here.

Archer looked up from the paper. His name is David Timmerman. I called Kirby Westerling, the proctor at my fraternity. He told me he remembered the guy and added he’s a first-class ass. But I should call Calvin Cooper to get the scoop. They, both Cooper and Timmerman that is, were in the same fraternity.

Scoop? asked Ione.

"Kirby works at The Boston World in the financial section, Archer pointed to the business column, and uses newspaper slang."

Ione came to the island, sat on a stool, and said, Therefore, we have a reason for your early morning telephone calls.

Precisely.

And what did Mr. Calvin Cooper tell you?

He said, and I quote, ‘Many of us thought him a coxcomb, and irritated the fraternity brothers with his obsession of being on time—especially true if he was running a meeting.’

Coxcomb?

"Timmerman’s nickname at the