Read an Excerpt

The Marigold Murders

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By Daniel Sorine AUTHORHOUSE Copyright © 2003 Daniel Sorine
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4107-7144-5

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Chapter One One hour before dawn, on the frosty Sunday morning of December 15th. Not a single soul was in sight, not even a patrol car, waiting anxiously to materialize out of the darkness of the night.

The exit ramp off Interstate 87 gave the impression of extending into an eternal half-circle before ending abruptly in the presence of a noticeably dented stop sign. He applied just enough pressure on the brake pedal to bring his aging Chevy Suburban to a full stop a couple of feet in front of the faded white line extending across the road.

Lieutenant Patrick Tomasini leaned his head out of the window of his truck to contemplate the millions of stars illuminating the heavens above. The biting cold air slapped his unshaven face with the swift sting of an angry woman's open hand. His heart pounded with the loudness of an inner drum. His father had died a couple of years earlier. A lonely star sparkled. He knew the old man was watching out for him.

He looked left, and then right. No traffic in either direction. He noticed a set of high beam headlights flickering their way through a heavy wooded area several miles up the road. He would be driving in that direction.

He kept his window rolled down all the way. The air carried a trail of approaching snow. He clicked on the overhead light and pretended to understand the road map. Being a cop, he knew never to stand too long in the same spot. It was a lifesaving habit he had picked up while on duty in the South Bronx.

All indications said to make a left. He switched off the overhead light and made the turn. If he had followed the map correctly, he was less than an hour's drive from his final destination. He toyed with the radio's tuning knob and caught a local station on 96.5 FM. They were playing an extended version of Horse With No Name. He wondered whatever happened to the group America. A weather brief came on at the end of the song. Snow flurries were expected by late afternoon.

His tires spun around a few times before he eased off the gas pedal and allowed them to get a firmer grip on the glassy pavement. A long segment of uphill driving waited ahead of him, losing itself in the distant density of a rolling fog. He was relieved to be the only driver out on the road. No very late night DWI to plow into him, head-on, because the driver's foot couldn't find the brake pedal.

He began thinking about Uncle Joe's problem. On both sides of the road the evergreens were thickening. The rolling fog was in reach of his headlights. The blackness of night appeared many shades darker. He kept on the low beams and switched on the fog lights. Uncle Joe had never displayed such a sense of panic, even in all his years as a big city detective. That frightened the young lieutenant. He knew his uncle had seen it all. The lieutenant recalled a case when his uncle had found two women squeezed into a refrigerator, both of them with their heads perfectly severed and sewn back on the other one's body.

Until recently, small towns, especially in mountain regions, rarely witnessed the kind of grisly murders so commonly associated with large metropolitan areas. He guessed that was because there were fewer victims to choose from, and nowhere for killers to really hide. The lieutenant's uncle hadn't given him any details, except for the fact that, before this spree, the last murder in Silver Lake had been committed back in 1945 by a jealous husband who had suspected his wife of infidelity while he was dodging German bullets in war-torn Europe. What actually frightened his uncle most were the number of murders that had taken place in such a short time, the intense violence with which the victims seemed to have been executed, and the total lack of motive and common relationship between the six victims.

The rhythmic thumping of the evenly spaced seams on the poorly paved road was lulling the lieutenant to sleep. He had to stay awake. The pavement was too slick to risk having to slam on the brakes with unexpected suddenness.

The fog was now caging him in. He slowed down until the speedometer dropped below 25 miles per hour. This would have been a perfect setting to dump a body. There he was, once again, thinking like a cop.

Silver Lake was now no more than 20 miles away. It was the kind of place that offered lots of charm and beauty under the summer sun, and was particularly captivating during the fall foliage. On the other hand, with the right amount of fog and darkness, it also had the ability to transform itself into an unnerving setting where one could easily imagine the presence of some grossly deformed creature, about to crawl out of the murky shores of the lake at any given moment.

The lieutenant didn't like to be thought of as the kind of person easily spooked by a creepy atmosphere. However, he wouldn't hesitate to admit his phobias about being stuck in elevators, or having to drive through long tunnels. He would also admit to experiencing an uncontrollable chill, which tended to manifest itself along his spine, during the last grueling steps before he entered the home of someone who had been brutally slaughtered. He hadn't totally gotten used to it, although he always seemed to get a perverted sense of pleasure out of that moment. It was almost like strolling through heaven before entering hell.

When he turned out his light late at night, the lieutenant made it a habit to shut his eyes with the knowledge that a killer would still be on the loose when he re-opened them the next morning. It helped him remember that detective work, no matter how gruesome it might be, was all facts, and not fiction.

All of a sudden, his eyes caught a glimpse of something not too far ahead of him, on the right side of the road. It looked like a pair of shiny eyes staring in his direction. He slowed down, out of curiosity, to give the nighttime intruder a stare in return.

It was a handsome buck, large enough to cause major damage to any car upon impact. Did it know it was deer hunting season? Its eyes followed the lieutenant's as he drove by. Vapor blew out of its nostrils. It reminded the lieutenant of how cold it was.

A hint of daylight was beginning to blend in with the surrounding landscape. Trees bordered the road in every direction. A few cars were now passing him, going the opposite way. The lieutenant welcomed the company.

He almost banged his head into the windshield while trying to read a decrepit road sign. It said: Silver Lake-8 miles. He was starving. He could already savor Uncle Joe's homemade pancakes piled a mile high, waiting to be drowned in a thick coating of pure Vermont maple syrup. He gave his old Suburban a thrill by pushing it 10 miles over the speed limit. What the hell. He was a cop.

Pancakes were waiting.

Chapter Two The lieutenant had a terrible sense of direction.

This was at least the fifth time that he recalled visiting his uncle since the man moved from Philadelphia to become Silver Lake's chief of police back in 1997. And each and every time, he would miss the last turn off the main road onto the secondary road leading straight into Silver Lake's Main Street. It was one of those tricky under-the-overpass or over-the-underpass situations that the lieutenant never seemed to remember. His only clue was a small white church. Only once he passed the church, which he knew should be on his left, did he know he was driving in the right direction.

The little white church came into sight. He rolled down the window, slowed down his Suburban, and in an unusual move, made the sign of the cross. An eerie feeling told him that in the days ahead he would need to feel the presence of his guardian angel.

As a law enforcement officer, he had learned to sense the uneven pulse of a place from years of stepping into the most peculiar situations. Silver Lake seemed to have such a pulse. Christmas was exactly two weeks away. One could have never sensed it from driving down Main Street. Holiday lights were nowhere to be seen. Window dressings were limited to a few of the newer stores.

He made a right turn at the end of Main Street onto Maple Street. Uncle Joe's house was the fifth one on the right. It came into sight: a neatly kept, two-story contemporary with beige aluminum siding. A narrow, paved, semi-circular driveway bordered a snow-covered, otherwise perfectly maintained lawn. The mailbox flaunted the colors of the American flag with his uncle's name written in big letters: JOE TOMASINI.

The lieutenant checked his watch. Time for breakfast. He spotted his uncle standing on top of the four-step landing. His fists were pressed against his pudgy waistline. He waved at the car. The lieutenant stretched his arm out of the window and waved back. His uncle's forced smile displayed a beautiful set of front teeth. The lieutenant knew his uncle's smile wasn't forced from lack of love, but from mountains of worry.

As usual, Uncle Joe would wait until his nephew climbed out of the truck before stepping down to greet him. The lieutenant could always feel that he was dying to give him a big kiss on the cheeks. That's how they did it in the old country. But this was America. Men weren't supposed to kiss. Instead, his uncle would extend his hand into his and shake it with enough power to crack open half a dozen of the hardest walnuts. Uncle Joe wasn't a big man, just about 5'9" with thick bones. But he had the mightiest handshake imaginable. Even mightier than the lieutenant's late father.

"It's good to see you, Patrick. You've lost a few," said Uncle Joe, with concern engraved all over his wrinkled face.

The lieutenant shook the pain out of his right hand. His back felt as stiff as a brand-new ironing board. It was time for a new truck.

He complimented his uncle out of respect. "Uncle Joe, you look great. I'm starving for your pancakes."

"Come on in, Patrick. They're hot and ready. Leave your stuff in the truck. We'll bring it in later."

Uncle Joe didn't look great. The lieutenant followed his uncle's distressed body into the house.

The sofas were still protected with plastic. Cedar chips had replaced the mothballs. Uncle Joe led his nephew into the dining room. The table was set for two. "Aunt Josephine?" The lieutenant wondered out loud.

"She had to fly down to Florida to see your Aunt Mary who just had a hip operation. She'll be back by Christmas. Make yourself at home, Patrick. I'll go to the kitchen and get the coffee."

The lieutenant was waiting for his uncle to return from the kitchen before he sat down in his lifetime place at the oval redwood table. Suddenly, an unexplainable insight made him peek out the dining room window. He moved the curtain aside and waited. Nothing uncommon was happening. A few snowflakes hesitated to hit the ground. He was about to return to the table when, without warning, the world, as seen through his eyes, switched to a crawling motion. She drifted past the house on her metallic pink bicycle without ever looking up his way. Her corn-blonde hair undulated in the frosty early morning breeze. Twelve at most.

And then she was gone. His uncle startled him. "Here's the coffee, Patrick. Let's sit down and eat."

The lieutenant was indecisive in joining his uncle at the table. Uncle Joe gave him a long second look and asked, "Patrick, you okay?"

He pointed out the window. "Just saw this young girl on a pink bike."

"Blonde and pretty?"

"She went by so fast."

"Must be the Siegler girl."

"First name?"

"Nadine."

"Unusual for up here."

"Her mother's from Quebec."

"Somehow I sense there's no father in the picture."

"You're damn right, Patrick. About two years ago he split, never to be heard from again. Huge, tall guy."

The lieutenant took his first bite of pancake. Only his Aunt Josephine's lasagna gave him such a feeling of contentment. Uncle Joe's pancakes were chewy enough to give the palate time to savor their delicate texture, and soft enough to melt in one's mouth while blending in with gushes of sweet maple syrup. Momentarily, his thoughts had drifted away from the Siegler girl. The pancakes were affecting his brain's ability to concentrate on anything besides his taste buds.

He took a breather and looked up at his uncle who was staring at him while sipping his coffee. "Anything wrong?" questioned the lieutenant with his mouth rudely full.

"The way you're chewing."

"I'm chewing the way I always chew."

"You're chewing awfully slow."

"Where are you going with this, Uncle Joe?"

"I've noticed throughout the years that whenever you chew very slow, you're thinking real hard about something. Normally, you would have finished that whole plate in less than three minutes. You're still on your first pancake. It's the Siegler girl. Am I right?"

Uncle Joe was able to read his nephew as well as he could his Bible, but the lieutenant wasn't ready to give in too quickly.

"What makes you think that?"

"Com'on, Patrick. Don't bullshit your uncle. I'm a cop, too. Or did you forget?"

"It's the Siegler girl," he admitted. "What about her?"

The lieutenant turned around to look out the window. Snow had begun to fall at a steady pace. He was about to answer when the phone rang. His uncle stood up, slower than he used to in the past, and headed toward the living room. The lieutenant heard him pick up the receiver, listen to the caller, and say, "Yeah" a few times before mumbling, "I'm on my way."

By the time Uncle Joe rushed back into the dining room he was already wearing his red plaid Mackinaw. "Number seven!" he howled. "Let's go!"

In less than five seconds, the lieutenant stuffed as much pancake into his mouth as he possibly could, then followed his uncle through the front door, grabbing a green parka off the rack on the way out.

The snow had begun to accumulate. They jumped into the aging Taurus patrol car parked in the driveway and sped off in the opposite direction of Main Street.

The lieutenant had to accept the fact that the man sitting next to him was no longer his Uncle Joe. Instead, he was Silver Lake's Chief of Police. It showed in the intensity with which he kept his eyes focused on the slippery road ahead of him, in the manner with which he held both hands firmly on the steering wheel, and it showed in the way he suddenly addressed himself to his nephew.

"Patrick," he declared, "I officially deputize you for the duration of your stay in Silver Lake. You'll have access to any crime scene we investigate. You may question anyone you feel necessary pertaining to each case, and you may conduct your own private investigation on the side, if you so wish."

The Taurus was beginning to skid in tight turns.

It was time for chains. Uncle Joe threw a commanding stare at his nephew, who reacted by raising his right hand without hesitation and saying, "I do."

Uncle Joe laid his eyes back on the road. "This is the story, Patrick, and buckle up, for heaven's sake."

The lieutenant didn't have the nerve to tell his uncle to also fasten his seat belt. He did as he was told and listened.

"Three weeks ago," Uncle Joe said, "we found Sam Kowalsky resting, face up, on the bottom of his bathtub, mouth open and hot water overflowing onto the floor. The coroner's report showed no signs of a heart attack, and no indications of a real struggle, although a light bruise mark appeared around his solar plexus."

"Like he had a weight on his chest, holding him down?"

"You could say so. Next, the Novak twins. They were both found in their large basement freezer, lying close together in the fetal position."

"Double suicide?" "Possibly. But neither was sick or had any money problems."

"How did they die?"

"The coroner said some kind of poisoning. But he couldn't exactly determine what. He concluded that they either took, or were administered, poison before ending up in the freezer. He sent blood and tissue samples to Albany for further analysis."

"So far, it doesn't sound like we have a crazed killer on the loose. What about the next three victims, Uncle Joe?"

"Same story. Except for victim number six. Sandy Hogan." Uncle Joe dared a smile and added, "Poor old Sandy."

"Sounds like you were fond of her?"

"Never saw a prettier redhead. It was as if she had strings of carrots growing out of her scalp. She was found with her mouth covering the exhaust pipe of her car, but the engine wasn't running. Someone waited until she died, then turned off the engine."

"Are you sure of that?"

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Marigold Murders by Daniel Sorine Copyright © 2003 by Daniel Sorine. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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