Donald Harry Roberts Mysteries
Season One
A Tome Of Poems
An
Inspector Christina Normandy Murder Mystery
Episode One
April Showers
The day Simon Bay, a man of slight stature with a grizzled beard and steely grey-blue eyes, arrived in Jewel Lake, it was as if the town itself held its breath. Always seen with a fedora perched atop his thin frame, he was a renowned poet whose decision to retire in our small, secluded town was a surprise that rippled through the community.
His arrival was unannounced, yet the news spread like wildfire. Simon, with his weathered face that hinted at a lifetime of stories, disembarked from the bus, carrying nothing more than a suitcase, his trusty old typewriter on which he claimed he wrote all his poems, and a lap top. His reputation preceded him, his poetry, filled with profound insights and delicate imagery, had touched hearts worldwide.
I remember our first encounter at the market store, It was there we met just days after Simon had moved in. “Simon Bay, as I live and breathe,” I had greeted him, extending a hand towards the man whose words I had admired for years. “I am Len Bard.” I introduced myself.
Simon Bay replied in a good natured voice, “Ah. I was reading your blog just this morning. You didn’t take long telling your readers that I am here.”
“Couldn’t help it. I have read every poem you have ever written and…well…I am a devote fan. But why on earth would you come way up here?”
In a few short words Simon explained that he had chosen Jewel Lake for its peace and tranquility. Nestled amidst nature, our town offered him a sanctuary for quiet contemplation and creativity, away from the city’s hustle and bustle. He settled into an apartment in The Market Maze, a vibrant area of Jewel Lake known for its bustling produce market.
Jewel Lake, enclosed by Circle Street North and South, was a town of several subdivisions, parks, and two industrial areas. The Market Maze was its downtown heart, a labyrinth of shops and stalls that always buzzed with activity. To the north of the town lay its namesake, Jewel Lake, a serene body of water that reflected the town’s charm. A ski hill with five runs and a fire watch tower were among the town’s attractions.
Little did we know then, Simon’s arrival would set in motion events that would forever change Jewel Lake. But that is a story for another chapter. For now, let’s dwell on the day when the quiet life of Jewel Lake was stirred by the arrival of the esteemed poet, Simon Bay.
It was typically rainy day, April 15th, 2023, two weeks after Simon Bay’s arrival. We had discussed a reading right there in Market Maze. Simon said it was a gift to Jewel Lake residents because so many had purchased hid books over the years. I asked him how he knew that and he answered with a grin, “I don’t really but since most seem to know me it must be because they have read my books.”
It was no surprise that it was raining but it made little difference. The town had set up a covered podium for the event and everyone came armed with an umbrella, hot drinks and a willing ear.
I remember the day well, Simon’s deep baritone voice rumbling out passages from several of his books, but mostly I recalled him announcing he was going to write a Tome Of Poems specifically about Jewel Lake. What I remember most was a sudden silence that took for awe. There was of course a cacophony of applause but somehow it was subdued. I thought of course people had had enough of the rain and wanted to get in somewhere warm and dry.
It was not long after that memorable day when Simon Bay, the esteemed poet, joined the Jewel Lake Writers Guild. I, Len Bard, had extended the invitation, and to my delight, he accepted. Simon expressed a desire to be part of something small and intimate, a place where writers could enjoy each other’s company and share their passion for the written word.
Our guild was a tight-knit group, making plans for readings and book fairs held in the community. Simon fit right in, his presence adding a new dimension to our gatherings. His insights and experiences brought a fresh perspective, enriching our discussions and inspiring us all.
Simon was particularly interested in Jewel Lake, often asking odd questions about the town. He was writing a Tome about Jewel Lake, he said, captivated by its beauty and serenity. He wanted to delve into its history, to capture its essence in his poetry. “Some quaint little secrets are always good for reading,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye. “Like loves found and lost, visitors who came and went but left a mark on their town and their hearts.”
His curiosity was infectious, and it sparked a renewed interest in our town’s history among the guild members. We found ourselves digging into old records, talking to the town’s elders, and exploring forgotten corners of Jewel Lake. In our quest to aid Simon, we were rediscovering our own town, seeing it through the eyes of a poet.
And so, our quiet town of Jewel Lake continued to be stirred by the presence of Simon Bay. His arrival had already set in motion something no one was expecting or that the town had long forgotten.
Some weeks past and the rains of April gave way to May’s flowering. Simon wrote a poem for his new Tome and shared it with the Guild. Reading his work is one thing but listening to him recite it in his rumbling and rolling baritone voice was captivating. Here I shall write it out but you will have to use your imagination to here him reading it.
May Flowers Blooming In Jewel Lake
As April's tears bid their farewell,
And the sun peeks from behind the veil,
Jewel Lake awakens, as if under a spell,
To the blooming chorus of May's tale.
Petals unfurl with stories to tell,
In colors vibrant, they dance and sway.
Each a testament of winter's quell,
A spectacle of life in radiant array.
The meadows laugh in hues so bright,
Daisies, tulips, in splendid bloom.
Reflecting the sun's nurturing light,
In the mirror of the lake, they loom.
Trees adorned in emerald sheen,
Whisper tales in the rustling leaves.
Blossoms peeking through the green,
As the lake beneath them heaves.
The lilies on the lake's surface glide,
A ballet of grace in the gentle tide.
Their fragrant notes in the air collide,
In this symphony of May, they confide.
So here lies Jewel Lake, serene and fair,
Under the sky, in the crisp spring air.
Blooming in colors beyond compare,
A word in nature to life's unwavering flair.
When Simon finished reading there was a profound and prolonged silence in the room. Then. A single clap evolved into a deafening explosion, louder than one my think twenty five people could make.
Simon nodded his head appreciatively then added to the moment before he gave up the floor, “The second part of the poem is in the making and I am sure it will amaze and probably startle you all.”
“Nice close Simon. Keep them bated.” I said.
“It is far more than that Lenard.” He never once called me Len, nor did he shorten other’s names. I suppose that is why, before the summer was out every one was using every other one’s proper names.
Episode Two
Body In The Adit
Months passed, and Simon Bay’s presence in Jewel Lake became a familiar sight. He was often seen in the local library, pouring over old records, or at the town hall, engaging in animated discussions with the town leaders. His questions, often cryptic and probing, raised eyebrows and stirred curiosity among the townsfolk.
One day, Simon walked into the local bakery, a favorite haunt for its warm pastries and the warmer company of its owner, Mrs. Mabel. “Good morning, Simon,” she greeted him, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. “What brings you here today?”
“I’m here to taste your famous apple pie, Mabel,” Simon replied with a smile. “And perhaps to ask about the old mining operations near the lake.”
Mabel’s smile faltered a bit. “That’s a part of history we don’t talk about much, Simon. It was a hard time for Jewel Lake.”
Simon nodded, his gaze steady. “I understand, Mabel. But it’s these hard times that shape us, isn’t it?”
In the following weeks, Simon’s interactions with the townsfolk grew more frequent. He visited the local shops, chatting with the shopkeepers about the town’s history. He attended town meetings, listening attentively to the discussions and occasionally asking pointed questions that left the town leaders thoughtful.
One day, Simon ran into Inspector Christina Normandy who was having lunch at a café he frequented. She had been on location from the city for a couple of weeks investigating a local CID incident.
“Inspector Normandy,” he greeted her, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about a case from twenty years or so ago.”
Christina raised an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises, Simon Bay. What case are you referring to?”
Simon looked at her, his eyes serious. “The one that was never solved. A missing girl. I wasn’t able to find any news clippings about it.”
Christina’s face paled slightly. “That’s a cold case, Simon. Why the sudden interest?”
Simon shrugged. “Just a poet looking for stories, Officer. Stories that need to be told.”
As the summer gave way to fall, Simon announced that he would soon be publishing his Tome Of Poems. The news was met with anticipation and a hint of apprehension. After all, Simon had delved deep into the town’s history, unearthing stories that many had forgotten or chosen to forget.
But as Simon Bay, the esteemed poet, had once said, “Some quaint little secrets are always good for reading.” And Jewel Lake waited, its breath held in anticipation, for the secrets that Simon’s Tome Of Poems would reveal.
It was a chilly Tuesday evening, the day of our weekly Writers Guild meeting. Simon Bay, our most enigmatic member, was uncharacteristically absent. I found it odd. Simon was always punctual and present. I tried calling him, but his phone just rang and rang, unanswered.
Concern gnawing at me, I decided to check on him. His apartment was just a few blocks away from the town library where we held our meetings. As I stepped into the hallway, I noticed his apartment door was ajar. An ominous feeling washed over me as I pushed it open.
“Simon?” I called out, stepping into the dimly lit apartment. No response. I flicked on the light switch and gasped. The place was ransacked. Furniture overturned, papers scattered everywhere, and a chilling smear of blood on the carpet of the living room.
My heart pounded in my chest as I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Hello, police? I need to report a possible crime. It’s Simon Bay…he’s missing, and there’s blood…”
As I waited for the police to arrive, I couldn’t help but think about Simon’s recent activities, his probing questions about the town’s history, his interest in a cold case. Had Simon’s curiosity led him into danger? As the esteemed poet had once said, “Some quaint little secrets are always good for reading.” But what if those secrets didn’t want to be read?
Sometimes things happen fast, too fast to keep up with and you find yourself scrambling to catch up.
Two unformed police officers arrived twenty minutes after I called. They had been called off another complaint that seemed to have some relevance to my call.
I had managed to look around and take some phone photos and jabber some notes into my thumb-drive voice recorder but when the cops arrived I was thanked politely and asked to step out in the hallway. One of the officers stepped out of earshot while conversing with someone on his phone. The second immediately went out then returned with crime scene barrier tape and put it up. Then he asked me some useful questions. At least they were useful to him.
As I stood there conjuring up truthful but a little cryptic answers I heard the other officer say, “It’s the apartment of the victim found in the mine adit.”
My stomach cramped and I clenched my fists putting things together. It was to coincidental for me.
“Are you done officer?” I asked.
He nodded but said, “Keep yourself available Bard. I am sure there will be more questions for you to answer.”
I nodded and asked a question hoping the officer would answer and he did. “On the other side of the ski hills.”
I was gone without another word and in my car speeding along the streets to the old mines unused for over twenty years.
My thoughts settle on something I had noticed in the apartment. It was Bay’s Tome Of Poems Manuscript in a black file folder. I had had time to skim through it intrigued that Simon had numbered each poem which in fact were sequential in content, more like stories in verse, each independent but connected by theme. They were all about Jewel Lake, its beauty, rustic nature, isolation in the wilderness and intrigue. What I discovered was there were several poems missing, numbered 21 to 37. But their theme was not lost complete. A note on poem 20 read, My investigation into a cold case.”
I didn’t have time to read more because the police had arrived.
The whole area was cordoned off with police barrier tape. There was an ambulance, four patrol cars and too many officials to bother counting.
I managed to worm my way in closer and saw the corner stepping out through the mine’s adit. With him was Inspector Christina Normandy. The minute she spied me she came rushing at me, waving. She said, “I received a communication that you were discovered at Simon Bay’s Apartment.”
“I wasn’t discovered Inspector. I went to look in on Simon because he didn’t show up for the writer’s meeting or answer my calls. When I found the place had been ransacked I called the police.”
“Oh.” The inspector replied then said, “I’ll need to talk to you. Stick around.”
“Do I get the scoop. Is it Simon Bay that’s been found…dead?”
Inspector Normandy nodded and added, “And it’s murder.”
Given my own discoveries I wasn’t surprised. I said to the Inspector, “Make sure no one touches Bay’s manuscript for A Tome Of Poems. It has intriguing implications. I suggest you go there now and grab it before someone else does.”
Inspector Normandy nodded and was on her phone in a second. She spoke then looked at me and asked, “Where is it?”
“Under the type writer. I checked it out…carefully. There are pages missing. Crucial to the theme of the book.”
“You shouldn’t have touched anything.” Normandy snapped officially but grinned and said, “I read your blog. At least you keep it honest.”
Episode Three
“Some Quaint Little Secrets
Aside from her levity I sensed Inspector Normandy was very serious about what she said and the unspoken words, “Keep your distance,” rang out loud and clear. So it was at that point that I decided to make this about her investigation, recording the progress clearly and concisely and only sticking my nose in when I discovered something that was over looked. She didn’t miss much.
As the sun set, casting long shadows over Jewel Lake, I found myself trailing Inspector Normandy. She was heading towards the Jewel Lake Writers Guild, a place where Simon had spent countless hours, weaving tales and sharing his poetic insights.
The Guild was abuzz with chatter as we entered. The news of Simon’s disappearance had spread, and a pall of worry hung in the air. Normandy, with her commanding presence, quickly silenced the room.
“I’m here to learn more about Simon Bay,” she began, her gaze sweeping across the room. “I understand he was a regular here.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. One by one, members of the Guild began to share their interactions with Simon. They spoke of his passion for history, his probing questions, and his uncanny ability to weave intricate tales about Jewel Lake.
Normandy listened attentively, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She asked pointed questions, delving deeper into Simon’s activities and interests. It was clear that she was trying to piece together the puzzle of Simon’s disappearance, and every bit of information was a potential clue.
As the evening wore on, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of admiration for Inspector Normandy. Her dedication to the case, her meticulous attention to detail, and her relentless pursuit of the truth were truly commendable.
Yet, as I watched her, I couldn’t shake off a nagging feeling. Simon’s disappearance, his interest in the town’s history, and the missing pages from his manuscript - they all pointed to a mystery that was far from ordinary. And as the shadows deepened around Jewel Lake, I couldn’t help but wonder - what secrets was our quaint town hiding?
As the esteemed poet, Simon Bay, had once said, “Some quaint little secrets are always good for reading.” But as I was quickly learning, some secrets were also dangerous - dangerous enough to kill for.
We were just about to leave the guild meeting room in the library when Constable Tol Lynda approached. He was one of the officers that had responded to my first call from Simon Bay’s apartment.
“Inspector Normandy. You have had a call at the station on the land line and I was instructed to tell you to return the call on the land line. You are not to use your cell phone.”
“Who was the call from?” Normandy replied.
Lynda shrugged his shoulders and answered, “An informant but she did not give her name. Here is the number you are to call.”
Normandy studied the number for a moment then tucked the slip of paper in her jacket pocket. “I’ll call when I get back to the station.” She groaned then walked away.
I followed with one question, “Isn’t an informant important?”
“Not this one. It’s my sergeant telling me he has found something of interest and will be here in an hour.” Normandy replied.
“Why so cryptic?” I asked.
Inspector Normandy grinned and said, “My sergeant used to work for the Ministry of Public Safety.”
“Oh. Spy gone cop. Cute.” I teased. Normandy grinned again but said nothing.
The news of Simon Bay’s disappearance and subsequent murder had sent shockwaves through the community and our tranquil town was now gripped by a sense of unease and fear. Now Jewel Lake was buzzing with whispers and speculations. Most were nothing more than speculative conjecture.
Inspector Normandy was relentless in her pursuit of the truth. She returned to the police station, her mind filled with the information she had gathered from the Guild members. Each piece of information was a potential clue, a piece of the puzzle that was Simon Bay’s life and death.
Meanwhile, I found myself drawn back to Simon’s apartment. The crime scene tape was still in place. An ugly and grim reality that murder can happen anywhere there are humans collected. I couldn’t help but think about the missing pages from Simon’s manuscript. What secrets did they hold? And more importantly, who would kill to keep those secrets hidden?
As I stood there, lost in my thoughts, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Inspector Normandy. “Meet me at the station. We’ve got a lead.”
Rushing to the station, I found Normandy in deep conversation with her sergeant. They were discussing a piece of evidence that had been discovered at the crime scene - a torn page from Simon’s manuscript. The page was numbered 21, the first of the missing pages.
“When was it found and who found it?” I queried.
“I did. I got it from an informant.” Sergeant Waites replied. But did not elaborate and I figured it was in his nature not to share police information.
The page contained a poem, a cryptic verse that hinted at a dark secret. It spoke of a hidden truth, buried deep within the heart of Jewel Lake. The verse was enigmatic, filled with metaphors and allusions that were hard to decipher. But one thing was clear - Simon had stumbled upon a secret that someone wanted to keep hidden.
As the investigation progressed, the mystery deepened. The identity of the sergeants informant remained unknown adding another layer of intrigue to the case. Who was this mysterious informant? And what role did they play in the grand scheme of things?
In the days that followed, Inspector Normandy and I delved deeper into the mystery. We combed through old records, interviewed townsfolk, and pieced together the fragments of Simon’s life. Each day brought us closer to the truth, yet the final piece of the puzzle remained elusive.
As the esteemed poet, Simon Bay, had once said, “Some quaint little secrets are always good for reading.” But as we were quickly learning, some secrets were also dangerous - dangerous enough to kill for.
I found myself drawn into this web of secrets and lies and somewhere in my mind was something that was trying to get out. One of those things that would later make me roll my eyes and ask, “How did I miss something as obvious as this. But little things like this too often get lost in the crush of information and are too subtle to come to the surface. Sometimes it is just the tone of someones voice or a comment that should have rang a bell but the bell was delayed or muffled.
“So what’s next?” I asked myself then answered my own question. “Go back to the adit and have another look around.”
For reasons I could not explain to myself I took my time and took a roundabout journey to the adit. Even at I felt as though someone was watching me. It was an eerie feeling, like pins and needles across the back of my head.
Episode 4
The Prospector’s Tale
As I approached the adit, I spotted a familiar figure. It was Will Maynan, the prospector who had found Simon’s body. He was hunched over, his eyes scanning the ground with an intensity that was almost palpable.
“Will,” I called out, my voice echoing off the rocky walls of the adit. He turned around, his weathered face breaking into a smile as he recognized me.
“Len Bard,” he greeted, extending a calloused hand. “What brings you back here?”
“I’m following up on Simon’s case,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I was hoping you could share more about what you found that day.”
Will nodded, his gaze turning somber. “I still can’t believe it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Simon was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”
We sat down on a couple of boulders, the silence of the adit enveloping us. I took out my notepad, ready to record Will’s account.
“I found him just over there,” Will began, pointing to a spot a few feet away. “He was lying face down, his manuscript scattered around him. It was a gruesome sight.”
“And the diamonds?” I asked, recalling the rumors that had been circulating around town.
Will’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the diamonds. You see, this mine was rumored to have a hidden vein of diamonds. Simon was fascinated by the story. He spent hours here, digging and exploring.”
“Do you think Simon found the diamonds?” I asked, my heart pounding in anticipation.
Will shrugged. “It’s possible. But if he did, someone wanted them badly enough to kill for them.”
I jotted down his words, my mind racing. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together, but the picture they were forming was far from comforting.
As I sat there, I couldn’t help but feel a chill run down my spine. The secrets of Jewel Lake were proving to be more dangerous than I had ever imagined. And as I delved deeper into the mystery, I knew I was stepping into a web of deceit and treachery. And something Maynan had said piqued my suspicious nature.
I said, “Wait. I didn’t hear anything about a manuscript being found here, scattered or filed.”
“Probably not Len. That sergeant fellow. He new you know. He collected the sheets as if he didn’t want anyone to see them. He had them all collected up before the inspector and you got here. The uniform officer who showed up first didn’t say much either.”
I replied, “Sergeants Waites. Hmmm. Did he show the manuscript to the Inspector?”
“Not that I saw but I did see him tuck the papers inside his jacket.” Maynan reported.
“Did you read any of the manuscript yourself?” I asked.
“Only enough to know that it was about something that happened once in Lake Jewell long time ago and diamonds. I don’t think he was diamond hunting Len. I think it was something else he was looking for.”
“What happened long time ago?” I asked.
“Murder some say. Kidnapping by others saying. It was new in these parts then so I kept my ear, eyes and mouth shut. The mine was just closing down.
As Maynan finished his sentence, a sudden noise echoed through the adit. It was the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching on the gravelly ground. We both jumped to our feet, our eyes darting towards the entrance of the adit.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Maynan nodded, his eyes wide with alarm. We rushed towards the entrance, our hearts pounding in our chests. But by the time we reached the open air, all we saw was a small figure disappearing down the road, swallowed by the dust kicked up by their hasty retreat.
“Who was that?” I asked, squinting into the distance. Maynan shook his head, his face etched with concern.
“I don’t know, Len,” he replied. “But I’ve been feeling like I’m being watched ever since I staked my claim on this mine.”
He went on to explain that he had discovered the mine was up for grabs just recently and had decided to prospect for more diamonds. If he found anything, he planned to reopen the mine.
“But you know, Len,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I get the feeling someone is not happy that I’m snooping around. I’ve had my equipment tampered with.”
A chill ran down my spine. The mystery of Jewel Lake was deepening, and it seemed we were not the only ones interested in the secrets it held. As I looked back at the adit, the setting sun casting long shadows over the rocky terrain, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that we were stepping into territory that delved into a darkness enveloping the lake that could tear up the fabric of its peaceful nature and bring a new sense of distrust.
“Thanks Maynan. You’ve helped me out a lot and maybe you should back off until this mess gets straightened out.”
“Can’t Len. If I abandoned the place someone else might stake their claim and my 20 years working the grounds here will be wasted.
I got it but wondered if a few diamonds was worth his life if things came to that. I shrugged my shoulders and walked away hoping it wasn’t the last time I saw the prospector alive. Someone had already killed once to cover up the past.
I went back to my office and sketched out an article. One that was bound to stir the pot. I was threshing out a few details when Sergeant Waites came in. My gut told me lots even before he opened his mouth. He didn’t say much but his few words spoke volumes and elevated my suspicions about him and his asset as he called the informant.
“You stepping on police toes Bard. My advice is to report what we tell you and keep your nose out of the investigation before you get it bitten off.” Then he turned and left. I’d been warned. I wondered how much of it was police business and how much it was Waites’ business. I had no doubt he knew more about what was going on than he was telling the Inspector.
I didn’t listen. I kept on writing and decided it was time to publish. But I knew when I did things would get me in deeper and hotter water.
The door opened again. It was my editor. He was looking grave. All he said was, “You gunna write this up cause if you are I gotta know before hand and get a lawyer ready.”
Episode 5
Charla’s Trail
Two decades past, Charla Bay’s tale erupted, shattering our sleepy town’s tranquility, morphing it into a frenzied spectacle of law and press. Yet, all that hoopla dwindled to a dusty, neglected file. Jewel Lake, once a miners’ haunt, now a sanctuary for the silver-haired, braced for more upheaval with a casino’s looming birth. The slaying of a famed poet? Merely a thorn in our side.
There I lounged, ensconced behind my desk when Inspector Normandy stormed in, her emerald eyes ablaze with unspoken terrors, her smirk a poor mask. She planted her fists on my desk, pinning me with her stare. “You’ve ruffled my feathers, Bard. That crusty prospector clammed up on me, claims he spilled his guts to you and won’t endure another tedious recount.”
Matching her grin with a shadow of my own, I brandished my voice recorder. “Park it. I’ll replay his yarn, though it’s naught but trifles and innuendos.”
“Cut to the chase,” she demanded, her tone sharp as ice.
I relished the flicker of surprise in her gaze as I retorted, still as the dead on a windless morn. “What skeletons do you suppose Sergeant Waits has buried, Inspector?”
I flicked on the recording, Maynan’s voice a mere whisper, but the Inspector was on me like a shadow. “Kill it,” she hissed, eyes glinting with secrets. “The ties that bind Charla Bay to the poet, his elusive manuscript, it’s all shrouded in riddles. Yet, it screams of blood ties, a father-daughter dance of mysteries. Our next move? Hunt down the matriarch.”
“Six feet under,” I cut in, the words tasting of dust and forgotten tales. “That path’s cold; the mother’s demise coincided with Charla’s vanishing act.”
Her surprise was almost comical. “A heads-up would’ve been nice,” Normandy snapped, the annoyance clear as day.
“You leapt without looking, Inspector,” I retorted with a smirk. “I had plans to brief you on the sergeant, spill the beans. But what gnaws at me, what casts a pall over this whole charade, is the conspicuous absence of a Simon Bay in the annals of the initial probe.”
A hush lingered, then with a sly grin, I whispered, "Inspector, there's a scheme we must hatch, and it's imperative Sergeant Waites remains in the dark."
Her brow arched, curiosity piqued. "Len?" A rarity, her use of my name—a signal I seized with glee.
"The manuscript you guard, I've a lair for a feast. Join me for dinner? My spaghettini and meatballs are to die for, garlic toast to crunch in secret, and a salad to cloak our true intent. Smuggle the manuscript, but let Waites catch the scent of our 'date.' It'll blind him to our true pursuit."
"Alright, Len," she conceded, skepticism lacing her tone. "But what casts doubt on my Sergeant?"
"Waites himself," I confided, recounting his intrusion during my exchange with Mayan. "It wasn't his words but the predatory gaze he fixed on the prospector. A prior encounter, I suspect. Maynan's words later struck a chord, 'How did that fiend ever don the badge?'"
"And you believe Simon Bay's verses hold more than meets the eye?" she probed.
"A narrative woven in rhyme, Inspector. Dissecting it line by line may unveil clues, perhaps enough to steer the constabulary true. Yet, I fear Simon met his demise mid-tale—his unfinished opus lacks the '30,' his signature denouement."
The Inspector's gaze narrowed, a silent accord between us as she nodded. "Very well, Len. I'll bring the verses, but this dance we're about to embark on? It's fraught with shadows and deceit."
As twilight embraced the town, I set the stage in my dimly lit kitchen, the aroma of spaghettini mingling with the scent of intrigue. The door creaked, and there she stood, manuscript in hand, her silhouette a beacon of resolve.
We dined, the clink of cutlery a clandestine symphony, our conversation a labyrinth of half-truths and speculation. "To the untrained eye, these verses are but a poet's fancy," I mused, twirling pasta with a fork. "But to those who dare look deeper, they whisper of corruption, of a lineage steeped in secrets."
The Inspector chewed thoughtfully, her eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt. "Simon's words, they're cryptic, but there's a pattern. He speaks of a 'chalice of malice,' a 'crown of thorns,' and a 'throne of bones.' Could these be metaphors for something more sinister?"
I leaned back, savoring the tang of the sauce and the sweetness of the game. "Perhaps they're keys, Inspector. Keys to unlock the truth behind Charla Bay's disappearance and her connection to the poet."
The night grew heavy with our scheming, the manuscript an enigma that bound us. We were no longer mere diners but co-conspirators, entwined in a narrative that threatened to consume us as much as we sought to unravel it.
And now since it’s not to late, "we begin our descent into the poet's mind, line by line, until we unearth the secrets that Sergeant Waites so desperately seeks to keep buried."
With a final sip of wine, the Inspector rose, her determination a tangible force. "Then let's raise the curtain on this macabre play, Len. And may the ghosts of the past be ready to reveal their tales."
We cleared away the dinner dishes and washed up then like two college kids doing our home work we spread out the pages of Bay’s manuscript the one line at time we dissected it, word for word, between the words and the lines.
We started at the very beginning:
May Flowers Blooming In Jewel Lake
1
As April's tears bid their farewell,
And the sun peeks from behind the veil,
Jewel Lake awakens, as if under a spell,
To the blooming chorus of May's tale.
Petals unfurl with stories to tell,
In colors vibrant, they dance and sway.
Each a testament of winter's quell,
A spectacle of life in radiant array.
The meadows laugh in hues so bright,
Daisies, tulips, in splendid bloom.
Reflecting the sun's nurturing light,
In the mirror of the lake, they loom.
Trees adorned in emerald sheen,
Whisper tales in the rustling leaves.
Blossoms peeking through the green,
As the lake beneath them heaves.
The lilies on the lake's surface glide,
A ballet of grace in the gentle tide.
Their fragrant notes in the air collide,
In this symphony of May, they confide.
So here lies Jewel Lake, serene and fair,
Under the sky, in the crisp spring air.
Blooming in colors beyond compare,
A word in nature to life's unwavering flair.
2
Beneath the blooms, a secret dwells,
In Jewel Lake's depths, it silently yells.
A tale of loss, of a girl gone too soon,
Whispers carried by the winds of June.
With pen in hand,
I Sought truth that lay beneath the land.
His verses cryptic, a puzzle to decode,
A father's love in every ode.
"Where hath the maiden, Charla, strayed?
Into the night, or just in shade?
For in her wake, a void was cast,
A mystery as vast as the lake is vast."
He penned of a locket, a trinket of gold,
A piece to the puzzle, a story untold.
"Seek ye the chain that binds her heart,
For therein lies the crucial part."
The manuscript, a map to the unseen,
Guiding to what might have been.
"Follow the trail of the silver thread,
To where the water lilies bed."
In every stanza, a clue concealed,
To the fate of Charla, to be revealed.
"Look to the stars, to the moon's soft gleam,
For nothing is ever as it seems."
So Simon's search, in verse, unfurled,
A father's quest for his lost girl.
In rhymes and rhythms, he laid the track,
For those brave enough to venture back.
“He isn’t hiding what he is trying to do but why not just come out and say it?” Christina said confusedly.
“I don’t know. Maybe he has something else to hide of his own or maybe he wants the cops to figure it out. That way his story will ring with better truth.”
“I need a drink.” She said.
Then the night work on and the wine wore down. It was sunrise when Christina left. Later she called me and said, “We were being watched. I am sure it was Sergeant Waites.”
“He knows something. A lot of something.” I replied.
Episode 6
The Hidden Message
The morning after our nocturnal sleuthing, Inspector Normandy, with a manuscript tucked under her arm, retreated to her office. "I've no love for poetry or poets," she muttered, a shadow of distaste crossing her features. "Private reasons," she added, leaving me to ponder the personal history behind her aversion.
Meanwhile, I found myself in the dusty archives of the local library, poring over yellowed newspapers from two decades ago. The articles about Charla's disappearance were sparse, but something caught my eye—a conflict of information involving an unnamed police constable. A discrepancy that could not be ignored.
Hours later, we reconvened, Inspector Normandy looking like she'd gone ten rounds with a cryptic crossword. "I've read it, Len," she sighed, "and I still don't see the appeal of veiling truths in verse."
I chuckled, spreading out the clippings before her. "Perhaps, but look here," I said, pointing to the article. "An unnamed constable, present at the initial investigation, never mentioned again. A loose thread, wouldn't you say?"
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the text. "A thread worth pulling," she conceded. "And the manuscript?"
I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Simon Bay's verses are a labyrinth, but they're not without exits. 'Chalice of malice,' 'crown of thorns,' 'throne of bones'—they're more than poetic flourishes. They're signposts."
She nodded, her bemusement giving way to intrigue. "So, what's our next move?"
"We follow the breadcrumbs," I replied with a smirk. "And we start with this unnamed constable. If we can unearth their identity, we might just find the path that leads us to the truth about Charla Bay."
‘Hey Bard. Weren’t you around here back then?” Inspector Normandy challenged me.
I wasn’t sure if she was serious or pulling my leg so I shot back with, “Oh, Inspector Normandy, you think you've caught me off guard, but I've always been here, lurking in the shadows of this quaint little town. Sure, I was around,” I confess with a sly grin, "but back when the darkness descended, I was off in the city, lost in the maze of academia. By the time I slithered back to our sleepy hollow, the whispers of Charla's vanishing act had been silenced, buried under a mountain of greed and ambition.
The town's puppeteers had grand visions of transforming our humble abode into a haven for the silver-haired and the pleasure-seekers. A Casino, they said, was the future, and I, the eager scribe, was tasked to paint their dreams in rosy hues. Yet, the itch for truth was too potent to ignore, and I dared to pry open the sealed lips of Charla's tale. Oh, how they nearly clipped my wings for that! It dawned on me then, the silence was a symphony to which the town's elite danced.
I played the obedient minstrel, biding my time, weaving words of compliance. But now, the stage is mine, and no curtain can drop swiftly enough to silence me. I'll craft a supplement," I declare with a devilish whisper, "a tribute to the police's quest and that haunting poem. And then, like a phantom, I'll vanish into the night. Those verses, 'Chalice of malice,' 'crown of thorns,' 'throne of bones'—let them be the beacon that illuminates the skeletons in our town's closet. My instincts scream their significance, a siren call to unearth the sins of yesteryear.”
“Bard. You’re starting to sound like a twisted poet but I agree. Print the poem. I got your back on this one. I’ll get the manuscript from my car.
Inspector Normandy went back to her car but came back a minute later.
The manuscript was gone. Swiped from her car in a brazen act of thievery that left us both reeling. “Someone jimmied the lock.”
The verses, our only tangible clue to the past, now in the hands of a thief—or worse, the perpetrator. As we stood there, amidst the chaos of thoughts, an unexpected figure emerged from the twilight.
Old Will Maynan, the prospector who’d spent more years in the mines than most had been alive, staggered into the police station. His eyes were wild, his breath ragged. “Ghost in the mine sha…” he gasped, before collapsing in a heap on the floor, his words hanging unfinished in the air.
The urgency was crushing as he was rushed to the hospital in a police cruiser, his condition grave. A gash in his skull, deep and malicious, spoke of an encounter most foul. Despite the doctors’ efforts, Will remained trapped in a silent world, unreachable, his secrets locked within.
The news spread fast. The town was instantly buzzed out with rumors and fear. A ghost, they whispered, a curse from the depths of the earth. But I knew better. Ghosts don’t wield weapons that fracture skulls. This was no specter’s doing; this was human malice, a darkness that lurked not just in the mines, but in the hearts of murderous creeps. I suspected the blow Will took was meant to kill him. But Will was too tough..
As the night crawled on, I sat by Will’s bedside, waiting for a sign, a word—anything that might shed light on the shadows that had enveloped Charla Bay’s fate. The manuscript’s disappearance, the attack on Will, it was all connected, I was sure of it. And I would not rest until the truth was unearthed, no matter how deep I had to dig. Even if I had to stomp and tromp on the inspector’s toes.
Inspector Normandy joined me in Will Mayan’s hospital room. She was dressed in civies.
“I can’t find my sergeant anywhere.”
To be continued next week: Sunday 7pm June 23rd