Suspicion of Murder

By James Ward

"Suspicion of murder," is set in the snowy wastes of upstate New York's Adirondacks. Lt. Thomas Shard, head of Mohawk County Sheriff Department's criminal section, is an ex-state trooper who has returned to his hometown of Leyden, a classic small upstate town full of oddball characters who add color and sometimes humor to his investigations.
This volume begins when Shard discovers a woman's body in his carriage house sitting in the passenger seat of his beloved Morgan. Worse, he recognizes her as an old flame. After Doc Fox declares that she is "terminally dead," Shard's investigation spirals down with a list of suspects that includes him. The sheriff takes Shard off the case because of his personal interest and puts Sgt. Knut Johnsen in charge. Shard has to prove his innocence, however, and disobeys his boss and works the case himself. As his list of suspects widens, he irritates his mob enemies, experts in the art of human extinguishment, who try to assassinate Shard - twice, after they have already screwed up the on their contracts to kill women to dispose of in beds.
Shard and Johnsen end up with strange collection of suspects, men connected with drug companies and their kickbacks, an Ayn Rand devotee who is totally off the wall, and sadly Shard's former live-in lover whose life is endangered. Jarl Hacon comes to Shard's rescue some 1,000 years after his own a women problems, and leads the lieutenant through a labyrinth of babble about chimera, reality, fouled nests, and nest holders, to an understanding of who did what to whom and why. Hacon and O'Reilly, Shard's favorite bartender, become the heroes of the case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Ward
• Release date: Oct 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005885120

James Ward

James Ward is the author of the Tales of MI7 series, as well as two volumes of poetry, a couple of philosophical works, some general fiction and a collection of ghost stories. His awards include the Oxford University Humanities Research Centre Philosophical Dialogues Prize, The Eire Writer’s Club Short Story Award, and the ‘Staffroom Monologue’ Award. His stories and essays have appeared in Falmer, Dark Tales and Comparative Criticism. He has an MA and a DPhil, both in Philosophy from Sussex University. He currently works as a secondary school teacher, and lives in East Sussex.

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Suspicion of Murder

James Ward

Copyright 2020 by James Ward

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 Mistresses & Murders

Chapter 2 Shard is a Suspect

Chapter 3 Suspicion Deepens

Chapter 4 Even Worse

Chapter 5 The Kaiser Removes Shard

Chapter 6 Who is Tim Winter

Chapter 7 Shard Disobeys the Kaiser

Chapter 8 The Kaiser Retaliates

Chapter 9 Ayn Rand

Chapter 10 Gunshots

Chapter 11 Hope is Hope

Chapter 12 O'Reilly to the Rescue

Chapter 13 Jarl Hacon Solves Crimes

Chapter 14 Shard's Past Saves Hope

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I would like to give credit to my late wife, Roberta Shannon Ward, an inveterate mystery reader, for the books’ plots and characters. When she became too ill to teach high school, we decided to write a mystery. We outlined the books as we cooked dinner. When we had a stack of paper filled with scribbling topped off with dried sauces, vegetable parts, and much unidentifiable dinner matter, we agreed she would write and I would proofread. She found that she hadn’t the voice to write and we switched roles. We enjoyed it so much that we finished a second and were into a third when Roberta died. I finished that one alone.

My sister, Sharon Caher, who lives in what she calls the Miami of the North, Olcott, New York, is my Vice President for Production. She spent years in the Buffalo public schools’ IT department and knows how to make these infernal machines operate. She set up our whole system, created the book covers, and figured out how to take out many of my reading gaffes. She is working to put the printed copies of the volumes on line.

Keeping the team in the family, my grandson Henry Ward Chambers, my Vice President for Public Relations, has splashed mention of the Shard Chronicles across the etherscape. He came up with our name and the word is, he has even listened to our podcasts. My daughter, Anne Ward, encouraged me to take this on and has done a heroic job of riding herd on my PRVP. She has also lured her husband and older son, Ted, to listen to Shard’s travails

Diana Barrow, an accomplished soul, whom I’ve never seen without a book, often a mystery, was my ace editor. She recommended gobs of changes, many of them structural, all of which made for better reading. She is one of the best editors I have ever had. My friend, Juliana Ratliff, donated her closet to the Shard project. She allowed me to set up my broadcasting studio in it, somewhere between the navy blue and black garments, to drown out sirens, lawn lawn equipment, robo callers, traffic noises, and the like. Best of all, she feeds me!

These congenial folks made this project fun and I heartily thank all of them for their efforts. If you enjoyed Shard’s adventures, thank the folks mentioned above. If you did not, blame me!

CHAPTER 1

Mistresses & Murder

Saturday Morning, Albany

"I tell you Tony, I’m still pissed at that two-bit, hick sheriff’s deputy. The bastard screwed up our land scam, and he got me in trouble with the cops. He thinks I offed that dipshit lawyer who weren’t even working for us. I’ve never killed nobody, you know that. I never told Tiny to kill the guy neither, just rough him up a little. Get his attention. Tiny’s so damned stupid he wipes the guy. But I gotta protect my boys, Tony, and I don’t gotta take that cops’ crap. That deputy, what’s his damned name, something Shard -- a stupid name -- threatened me. Me. Said he’d watch me. I don’t take that shit. I talked to Uncle Joe in Utica and he promised he’d take care of the deputy for me for a few thousand. But Jesus, Tony, I don’t wanna hit cops. That’s like slapping lasagna with a spade. You end up with crap all over you. Know what I mean?"

Let it alone, Alphie. We got other businesses, and your Little Italy’s a nice cover for us. Besides I like its food. You’re respected. Leave the cops alone. We pay enough to keep ‘em off our backs. Kill one, and we end up at the bottom of a well.

But I got my reputation to protect, Tony. I’ll lose respect if I let the cops slap me around. And the word is out. Tiny can’t keep his trap shut. I’d like to tie Shard up in your car wash, turn the water to boiling, and leave him sit there for a day. That’d teach the bastard.

I can’t get no water that hot, Alphie.

I know that Tony. Just dreaming, you know.

Alphie filled Tony’s glass with a cheap, red, domestic wine that he bought by the truckload and then had his boys slap Italian labels on the bottles. Nobody knew the difference.

Uncle Joe is smart, Alphie said, bet he could figure a way to ruin that asshole cop. Maybe a woman? Think he’s got one? He looks like he never had no pussy. Maybe Uncle Joe could set him up. Know what I mean? Dead broad in his bed or something. Nuthin he could pin on me. Maybe Uncle Joe could off a Catholic broad. Wouldn’t that be funny? The boys would like that. I’ll call Uncle Joe. He’s got boys all over the state. Whatcha think, Tony?

As long as we don’t use any boiling water or my car wash, I’m okay with it Alphie. But keep it cheap; business ain’t that good. And I don’t know about the Catholic broad thing. Father Dominic wouldn’t like it.

I don’t think he cares about no broads, Tony.

Saturday Morning, Rochester

"Does it always snow here? the man asked as he looked out the window of Rochester airport’s Ramada Inn. It looks like God is smothering us with the stuff. I can’t even see the cars in the parking lot any more. Christ, we may never get out of here. But, on second thought, that’s not all bad, is it?"

The woman on the bed rolled her lithe body on its side to face him. I don’t know. It depends.

He poured a generous dollop of vodka into a plastic glass, added exactly two drops of vermouth, a couple of ice cubes, and delivered the drink to her.

She watched him walk towards her. He claimed to be only forty-three, but looked at least a decade older. Not bad though, she thought, but well into middle-aged flab. She’d never liked the way he combed his black, shiny hair across his bald spot. His belly sagged towards his pelvis, and she noticed it made his penis and balls look smaller, almost childlike. It didn’t help that most of his five feet eight inches of height was in his torso. But still, his cherubic face with its overly large, expressive brown eyes and cute smile hinted at a younger man’s appeal that had attracted her when he sauntered into her pharmacy.

Depends on what? he asked, as he walked back to the window where he made another vodka martini for himself and clicked on the television. The History Channel was showing a rerun of an old documentary, Locomotion, an inquiry into railways’ roles in US development. He was torn between watching a short scene that featured a wood burning, pre-Civil War steam engine or staring at the almost flawless form of the thirty-six year old woman lying on the bed. God, she’s beautiful, he thought, perfectly shaped medium sized breasts that only sagged a little, tipped with hard, liver-hued nipples, a tapered waist, and well proportioned hips separated by a triangle of untrimmed curly, brown pubic hair. The mere thought of womanly smells trapped in that hair aroused him. Her only flaw, besides being brunette instead of blonde, was her height. She towered over him by at least two inches and stood over six feet in high heels. She often made him feel insignificant, and he never understood what she saw in him because he was no beauty. But he wasn’t going to question her lust for his body. It was all too much fun.

I was just thinking, she said, that we’ve been in dozens of bedrooms like this, and I don’t see this going anywhere. You’re fine; you have a wife, a home, financial security, and a bit of arm candy when you want. You can walk and not lose much. Whereas, I’m divorced, live alone in a big house, have no children, and have to work almost thirty more years before I can retire. Bottom line here is that you know that I need you more than you need me.

Aw, that’s not true. You’re my baby. Haven’t I been good to you?

Yeah, but you haven’t given me what I want most and what you promised me -- security. You swore six months ago that you’d ask for a divorce. Have you? No! And you never will. We’ve talked about this dozens of times, and always it’s the same.

It’s just never been the right time, babe, he said, keeping an eye on the TV commentator going on about Americans’ love affair with trains. But I will, I will, I promise.

Crap. You’re full of crap. Next year we’ll be in another cruddy motel, in some other horseshit burg, naked, drinking, talking about this while you watch some damned show on the History Channel. I’m lucky they aren’t showing something on World War I. It would give you a hard on, but you wouldn’t notice it until the show was over.

What about World War I? he asked.

Goddamn it! That’s just the point. You never listen to me! You don’t need me. I’m not even sure you want me. You can sit there nude, drink yourself stupid, watch choo choo trains, and be happy. You have a home to go back to.

He reluctantly tore his eyes away from an enlarged still photograph of a boomtown along the Union Pacific Railroad, and made her another drink. As he opened his mouth to reply, his cell phone played Uptown Girl.

Hello?

Oh, hi. The brunette could hear every word the caller said. She smiled, and snuggled down with her fresh martini.

You don’t understand, dear, he said casually. The plane had to land in Rochester because it couldn’t get into Syracuse. They hadn’t plowed the runways yet, so the pilot turned around and landed here. And it’s snowing so heavily that we can’t get out. The airline put me up for the night.

His wife’s irate voice sounded as though she were using a megaphone.

I know, dear, but they wouldn’t let me use my cell phone to warn you not to come to the Syracuse airport. It wasn’t my fault.

He held the phone away from his ear in anticipation of her next blast. He wasn’t disappointed.

No, dear, I’m not in bed with some floozy. A broad smile spread across his face as he realized that he was technically telling the truth. He was seated in a chair.

Another screed blasted from his phone.

No, dear, I’d never cheat on you. You know that. He was sorry the moment he said it. She’d been suspicious of his meanderings for years, long before he had tumbled into bed with this find.

Another verbal thunderstorm followed.

No, I promise I’ll be home tomorrow. If the planes don’t fly, I’ll rent a car. Don’t worry.

The woman on the bed drained most all of her drink, and with a great deal of grace, slid off the edge of the bed, unfolded her lanky frame, and sashayed slowly into the bathroom, so as not to miss a precious word of the phone conversation. She rooted in her cosmetic bag, found a couple of Valium, and downed them with the dregs of her drink. She paused, looked at the man, then mixed another martini, twice as large as his, and eased back on the bed, fortified for the argument she knew was coming.

No dear, I promise. Cross my heart. My phone’s battery is low; I have to hang up. Sleep well. He cut her off.

Damn woman, he mumbled, as much to the TV as to the luscious woman lying on their bed.

You slimy sonofabitch, she said, and took a large sip of her drink. I could hear every word your wife said. She knows you’re screwing around, and I bet you screwed around with her while you were still married to your first wife. I must be out of my goddamned mind to stay with you. You use me just as you did her, and God knows how many other lonely women.

Reluctantly, as he dragged his eyes away from a builders’ photo of a brand new Baldwin steam engine posed on the company’s turntable, he began to reply, but she cut him off.

Here’s what we’re going to do, you scumbag. I’ll give you one week to demand a divorce and move out of your house. If you don’t, I’ll call your wife and tell her what you’ve been doing for a year. I’ll give her all the lurid details, such as what you like to do with your face buried in my bush, and what you make me do to get you hot. I’ll explain how you siphoned money from your company’s accounts to hide our expenses. I’ll even confess that you rewarded my sexual prowess with a new Honda and promised me a Mercedes if I did even more sick things to you, which is why I still have the Honda. After that I’ll call your boss, and hint that he might be interested to audit your travel account. I’ll get your ass fired, and you thrown out of your house. I’ll testify for your wife in your divorce; you’ll come out of this with nothing, no wife, no mistress, no job, no assets, no pension, no self-respect.

I’ll get my Honda back, you bitch.

I’m ashamed to admit I worked for that car, she said. I traded my self-respect for it. It’s my big public letter A. Right now, even if you did get a divorce, I don’t think I’d want you.

She started to cry, barely able to keep her drink from spilling.

He got out of his chair and crawled on his hands and knees across the bed. Now, babe, you’re just upset. I promise I’ll do….

She dashed her drink in his face.

Goddam it, he spit out in a voice a half an octave higher than normal.

Saturday, Albany

"That cop Shard is driving me nuts, Tony. I called Uncle Joe. He knows all kinds of shit," Alphie said.

What did he say? Tony asked.

We can do some stuff. Get back at him. Joe’s guy found out that he has a squeeze in Buffalo. Maybe we can do something to her. Joe’s wife’s father is a big deal out there. Maybe kill her and leave her body on Shard’s doorstep? Scare the shit outta him. Alphie said.

Better to leave her in his bed. That’d be too funny.

Yeah, I like that too. Wanna do it? It’ll cost us ten big ones, more if we want fast service. I’ll talk to Pipi to see if he’ll go in with us. Get him to launder a little dough for the job. Are you game? You can’t just sit here, and watch city water run through your damned car wash. You’re going to get us into trouble for stealing it, Joe. We’ll end up in the can over your damned water. Just pay for the damned stuff, like I do, Alphie said.

You know how much Goddamned water I use a month? It’s cheaper to buy the cops off. I told you that a hundred times. Don’t you understand nothing? You only use water to boil your friggin noodles and water your sauces.

Wash the damned cars dry. Don’t use no water, Alphie said.

You’re full of shit.

Okay, okay, we’ll talk about that later. Are you in with me on this? All three of us gotta be in, Alphie said.

Shit, I guess so, but killing broads ain’t my thing.

Mine neither, but it’ll get the cops off our asses and show them we ain’t going to be fucked with. Gotta do that. Right? Alphie asked.

I guess.

Let’s go for the fast job, Tony. I’m in a hurry, Alphie said.

Saturday, Utica

"If this damned snow doesn’t stop, I’m going to set my house on fire, collect the insurance, buy a used Dodge Caravan, and move to the Everglades to hide from my wife and her grasping lawyers. In fact, I may do it anyway to salvage my sanity."

You haven’t been sane in years, Stan. If you were, we wouldn’t be sitting here. You’d be home with your perky little wife and kids playing with Legos. Instead, you spend all your spare time trying to get in my pants.

That’s a lot more fun than playing with Legos, Stan said, as he sat down next to her on the couch and slipped his hand under her skirt, and gently slid his fingers up her slightly splayed thighs.

You make this easy for me, my dear. You don’t have any panties on this afternoon. You must really want it.

I must have forgotten, she said, as she sipped her highball. But I’m really not in the mood. This snow depresses me. What I really want is some explanation of where this is all heading.

What do you mean?

Well, my husband is shacked up with that druggie bimbo of his in Rochester, and you’re fiddling with my parts. Am I spreading my legs just to get back at him for diddling that whore? Why do you have your hand up my thigh? What went wrong with your marriage? No, don’t answer that. I’ve already endured hours of your complaints. They all boil down to Sarah found out about us, moved out, and is suing you for divorce. I’ve told you again and again that I don’t want to marry you, even if I were free to do so. I’m not in love with you, and never have been. So, there. Nor am I in love with that philandering fool I married. This is one helluva a mess, Stan.

Aw, it isn’t that bad, dear. We have a lot of fun together. You’re dynamite in bed. I’ll give you that.

Yeah, when you’re on top of me. Does anything else hold this affair together? I don’t know what the hell I see in you.

I know what you like about me, Stand said with a lascivious smile on his face. You’ve always liked it. So did Sarah and all the other women I’ve screwed. I’m good at this stuff.

Oh, don’t be so damned pompous. I’ve had better, much better.

Oh yeah, with whom?

That guy I lived with for years who was all man, if you get my meaning. But I made the mistake of leaving him. I must have been out of my mind.

My guess is that you were out of your panties, just like now, Stan said, as he wiggled his fingers between her legs. She was dry.

You’re a hot woman, he said.

Bullshit! I’m just stupid. This is stupid. You’re stupid. This whole affair is stupid. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I’ve got to straighten my life out. I’ve got to get rid of you and my husband and start over while I’m still young enough.

Stan withdrew his hand, smoothed down her skirt, took a gulp of his chilled vodka, and stared at her in disbelief.

You can’t mean that. We’ve had a lot of good times, haven’t we?

Yeah, but they were all in bed. What else do we have? Do we go out? No, we can’t. Do we travel? No, we can’t. Your house, my house, cheap motels and hotels, that’s all. I’m tired of the cheating, the lying, and the sneakiness. It’s cheap, Stan, that’s what it is. If I had my druthers, I’d go back to the guy I used to love, and maybe still do, and start over. That’s what I’d do. You know, damn it, maybe I will.

Stan leaned over to kiss her, his eyes closed, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, the look of a man who knew how to have his way with women.

She turned towards him, and slapped him hard across the side of his face.

He let out a curse and grabbed her by the throat.

Saturday Evening, Buffalo

"Does it always snow like this in Buffalo? Thomas Shard asked as he smeared his gloved hand around the inside of his fogged windshield so he could see the edge of the road through quarter-sized snowflakes so heavy he could hear them land on his car’s canvas top. Why do you live in this God-forsaken place?"

That’s two questions, world-class detective. First, it only snows this hard after the wind dies, Ellen said.

Yeah, and then what happens when the wind winds up again?

It gets far too cold to ride in this bucket. You know they now make cars with heaters that put out heat. Some of them even have defrosters so you can see through the windshield. Moreover, I’ve also heard that many cars built after 1915 have windows, real glass ones that crank up and down from the inside. You must have one of the last cars ever built with side curtains.

Make fun of my classic. Just try to buy a 1954 Morgan these days. It’ll cost you a fortune. I’ll grant you its heater isn’t the most efficient in the world, but the Brits always dress in wool. I hear girls even wear wool bloomers.

As for your second question, Lieutenant, I live here because this is where I earn my living. And as a CPA, I can tell you professionally that you can’t depreciate this bucket on your taxes. It depreciated out about four decades ago.

It’s running, isn’t it?

That, in itself, is something of a miracle. I remember the time it wouldn’t start after Leyden’s Fourth of July parade. Remember that?

It was hot that day and Morgans don’t like heat. They prefer the feel of warm woolen bloomers on their cold leather seats.

I don’t know how you talked me into going out to dinner in this thing. I have a perfectly good Lexus with a heater. And windows.

To be frank, if the weatherman had predicted snow like this, I wouldn’t have brought it. I’d have brought my working car, said Shard.

Oh good, then you could have taken me to dinner with your siren blaring and lights flashing. That’d be a grand entrance for the guy in valet parking. He’d have fled, probably because there are eight outstanding warrants for his arrest.

It was a fine meal, though, Shard said. The best part was looking across the table at you, still as beautiful as you were when we dated in high school.

Well, thank you, copper. At least you didn’t wear your uniform tonight. If my clients saw me accompanied by a uniform, my business would have plummeted fifty percent.

I never wear my uniform, except to funerals and the sheriff’s swearing in.

Speaking of that, how’s the Kaiser doing in his re-election bid? If he loses, my meal ticket tonight may be forced to become a uniformed Wal Mart greeter.

Funny, but unfortunately some truth to it, Shard said, as he wrestled the steering wheel to avoid a mound of snow appreciably higher than his car. Don’t they ever haul these piles away? In Leyden we keep our snow banks below cars’ window so drivers can see when they make a turn.

Listen, lawman, if we kept our banks below the sills of this thing, they’d only be four inches high.

Stutzenberger is in the toughest race of his life, Shard said. The outs found an ex-FBI man to run against him, and the guy is sharp. The sheriff is spending most of his time glad-handing and raising money, lots of it. That makes it easier on us because he’s outside the department most of the time, but he’s also much more impatient. He wants every case solved in a wink, and he wants all crime to cease for the duration of the campaign.

I always wondered, big boy, what percentage of your murders you solved. To hear you talk, you have a perfect record.

You’re wrong, Shard said, as he vigorously rubbed the inside of his windshield again while he revved the engine, downshifted, and braked to avoid a dog ambling across the snow-covered street.

Why don’t they keep their mutts inside on a night like this?

I’m wrong about what? she asked.

I’m not perfect.

She let out a snort.

Do tell. If you were, you’d be sheriff.

Never. In the four years since I left the state police, I’ve worked ten murders. I solved nine. That my friend, rounds out to about a ninety percent success rate. Pretty good, huh? Better than twice the national average.

What one didn’t you solve?

I knew you’d only care about that one. It still nags at me. I keep hoping that some night I’ll wake up with a brilliant idea about a new lead, but so far I’ve slept like a baby.

You didn’t last night, Ellen said.

"I’ll figure it out someday. I may even