The Informant -- Chapters 1 - 10

Prologue – The Informant

Boston Seaport, 1994

The wind off the harbor carried the salty bite of low tide and the hollow clang of loose cables on sailboat masts. Farther out in the black water, a tug’s horn moaned in the fog.

Arnie Price checked his watch. Looked up. Checked it again. Ten minutes late.

He should have been here by now. The thought gnawed at him as he hugged the shadows along the edge of the unlit railing, moving toward a darkened brick warehouse at the far end of the pier. His shoes crunched over patches of sandy grit. A buzzing security light cast a cone of yellow that faded into the mist. The weathered Seaport Fishery sign hung limply from rusted bolts, begging for a fresh coat of paint.

He glanced behind him—empty street, wet asphalt reflected in the lamplight. A man in a hooded coat had trailed him for two blocks earlier. Or maybe that was just paranoia. Franco’s warning rang in his head: Keep moving. Keep your head down. Don’t be exposed longer than you have to.

Inside his coat pocket, Arnie’s fingers closed around the cassette recorder - the tape with the informant’s final call. Nervous, out of breath, triumphant: Got it, Price. Exactly what you asked for—just not where you thought it would be. This blows it wide open.

He’d called Claire before leaving the newsroom, told her he’d be late. That was the mistake. She’d been in tears, worried, anxious - asking him to come home and call the authorities.

 “Think of us” she’d said. He’d said it would be fine and only a few extra minutes and he’d be catching the later red line. But those minutes had stretched thin, pulled taut like saltwater taffy.

From inside the warehouse, a heavy metal door slammed.

Arnie stepped closer. The air smelled of oil and cold iron. Low voices bled through the walls—sharp now, not cautious. He paused just outside, nerves fraying.

One word cut through the night. “No.”

Then the sound that would live with him for decades: two short, flat pops—suppressed gunfire.

He shoved the door open, adrenaline surging. Footsteps echoed as he sprinted into the dim space, the tang of gunpowder faint but unmistakable. Pallets loomed overhead. A shadow shifted between them — a trench coat flaring before vanishing through a far exit. The door slammed shut behind.

In the center of the floor lay the informant, sprawled on the concrete. Arnie dropped to his knees, pressed a hand to the man’s neck. No pulse. Eyes wide, glassy — accusing him of being too late, asking why.

“Police!” The shout came from behind. Flashlights sliced through the dark.

Arnie turned, his hands slick with blood. The informant’s blood. “I just got here!” The words came thin, swallowed before they reached the air.

A flashlight beam locked on him, then on the body. An officer’s voice hardened. “Step away, sir.”

Arnie eased the man down, rose shakily, and backed up—straight into another uniform. Guilt slammed into him. If he’d come straight here. If he’d been faster. If he hadn’t made that call.

The last thing he saw before they led him outside was the recorder lying a few feet from the body—its tape compartment open and empty. In his hand was an envelope he’d found in the man’s pocket—he didn’t remember taking it, but there it was, soaked with blood.

Everything he’d worked for felt as if it was sinking off the pier and into the murky waters below.

This was not supposed to happen. And Arnie knew, even then, there was no coming back from it.

Chapter 1 – Bridge Over Troubled Waters

Peterborough Library

By late March, the last stubborn snow mounds in the Peterborough library’s parking lot had dwindled to grimy lumps, slowly surrendering to the sun. The grass was beginning to green at the edges, daffodil shoots nudged up through thawing soil, and the smell of wet earth hinted at spring. The trees still stood bare, skeletal against a pale sky, but the air carried that faint, improbable promise that winter wouldn’t last forever. Temperatures clung to the upper forties, yet if you tilted your face toward the sunlight, you could almost believe warmer days were close. Almost.

Inside, Arnie Price was back in his listening chair—the one in the far corner where the library’s sightlines and acoustics conspired to make voices carry. Mud season was good for business. People wanted to be out of the house, but not too far, and the library made the perfect halfway stop between “going somewhere” and “not going anywhere at all.”

His afternoon had already been filled with the usual grab bag of conversations. Sean Hawkins, the Stonegate shuttle driver, had passed the time between drop-offs and pick-ups trying to untangle the mysteries of cryptocurrency.

“So, it’s money, but not… like… money,” Sean had said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You can’t hold it, can’t spend it at the diner, but people pay real money for it? And what’s a blockchain—some kind of bike lock?”

Arnie had let him talk himself in circles until Sean decided maybe the whole thing was a racket.

Then came Sadie Johnson, sleeves rolled up and eyes bright, already planning her allotment garden for spring. “If Lucy Fredricks plants corn again, I’m sunk,” Sadie fretted. “Corn, sunflowers, pole beans—they’ll shade my whole plot. You can’t grow tomatoes in the dark, Arnie. It’s un-American.”

But the last visitor wasn’t here for idle talk. He was a man Arnie had never seen before, in a windbreaker and Red Sox cap, the brim shadowing most of his face. He stepped in, glanced around like he was making sure of something, and walked straight to Arnie’s table.

“This is for you,” the man said, setting a thick envelope on the table. His voice was flat, transactional.

“From who?” Arnie asked.

“Don’t know. Guy in a hat and glasses, out in the parking lot, maybe ten minutes ago.”

“What’s his name?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Why me?”

“Didn’t say that either.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just that you’d know what it meant”.

The man left as quickly as he’d come, and when Arnie turned the envelope over, he saw it had been marked in a hurried scrawl, Bridge over Troubled Waters.

A shiver ran through him as he closed his eyes. When you’re weary, feeling small … He knew exactly what that meant: Boston Harbor, 1994. He could hear Royce in his head and friends just can’t be found .. but you have us! This was not something he wanted to share with his Bridge Group friends back at Stonegate. At least, not right now.

Inside the envelope was a brittle clipping from the Boston Globe, dated thirty years ago—the article that had won Arnie the award he kept tucked in the back of his closet. His piece on corruption at City Hall. Kickbacks. Falsified contracts. Unwarranted favors. Arnie had documented them all—enough to force Mayor Campbell out. In the middle of the column, several lines had been circled in black ink. Next to them, in jagged handwriting, were four words: You got that wrong.

The memory was immediate, visceral—the stink of the harbor, the warehouse floor, the weight of the cassette recorder in his pocket. Mayor Campbell resigned in disgrace, and the deputy mayor, Patrick O’Sullivan, had taken the job by default. O’Sullivan had served out the term, slipped into the private sector, and resurfaced as a U.S. Senator. Now he had aspirations to run for higher office.

There was a second note inside, on yellowed paper, typed with an old machine whose keys misaligned certain letters. The uneven print pulled him straight back to that year. This is what you needed. May not be too late.

He stared at the words until they blurred. The handwriting—or maybe the typeface—was familiar, but not quite right. An imperfect forgery? Or a ghost from a case that had never truly died?

At his usual 4pm shutdown time, Arnie walked Digby back toward Stonegate. The evening air had cooled, the wet sidewalk glinting with the last of the snow pile runoff. They stopped outside Steele’s Hardware, where his reflection stared back from the darkened window—lined face, thinning hair, a man who’d thought his Boston Harbor days were behind him. He felt the old instincts stirring—curiosity, dread, the itch to chase a truth that might not want to be found. But beneath it all, Claire. That was the wound that never healed.

The envelope felt heavy in his coat pocket. He knew two things for certain: whatever this was, it had just landed in his lap. And once he opened it, there would be no easy way to close it again.

Chapter 2 – The Tie That Binds

Harlows in Peterborough / Stonegate

Harlow’s in Peterborough was the kind of place you could disappear without trying. The dark wood paneling swallowed what little daylight managed to sneak in, while walls sagged under the weight of signed Red Sox memorabilia and yellowing photographs. The booths were just deep enough to keep your business your own. The place was noisy with restless kids and raised parental voices, the constant shuffle of servers ferrying trays of chowder and burgers. Arnie had chosen it precisely because it wasn’t a Stonegate haunt. Unless they were your grandkids, most Stonegaters avoided family-friendly.

Besides, Harlow’s set a water bowl by the door. That meant Digby was welcome. That counted for something.

He’d asked Franco to meet him here, not at Stonegate. No need for Bridge Club questions just yet—he could already hear Connie’s curiosity, Royce’s dry commentary, and Evelyn’s stack of annotated records. Best to keep this one to himself, for now.

Franco slid into the booth opposite him, shoulders filling the space. The leather jacket he wore had molded to his frame over the years. His hair was more salt than pepper these days, but his eyes remained sharp, restless. Three days of stubble lent him that familiar mix of mystery and tough warmth.

“Still order the chowdah?” Franco asked, flipping the menu with studied disinterest.

“Some traditions don’t need fixing,” Arnie said. “Closest I’ve found to what we used to get on the Cape.”

Franco smirked and cast his habitual glance toward the door and window, always keeping track of exits. Arnie remembered the tic well.

They’d first crossed paths when Arnie was at the Beacon. Franco had been the name passed around when surveillance needed more than a camera on a tripod. Long before Boston’s streets caught up to digital tricks, Franco had already figured out how to blend new tech with old-fashioned tail work. Law school had been the plan once, but the streets had called louder.

Arnie had hired him for an ugly case: an art dealer who blackmailed corporate elites into handing over paintings and antiquities. Franco had delivered the grainy surveillance shots that brought the dealer down. They’d closed that case together, bound by the grim satisfaction of toppling someone who thought himself untouchable.

But 1994—that one, they’d never closed.

“You heard from me yesterday because something came across my desk,” Arnie said now, leaning forward. “Something I couldn’t ignore. Thanks for coming.”

Franco’s jaw tightened. “This about him?”

Arnie nodded. “Someone dropped off an envelope at the Listening Service. Take a look.”

He slid the envelope across, careful to avoid the sweating ring from Franco’s pint. Franco emptied it slowly, eyes locking on the clipped Boston Beacon article.

“My article,” Arnie said. “The one from back then. And see the note? ‘You got that wrong.’ I haven’t been able to shake it.”

Franco’s gaze sharpened.

“There’s more,” Arnie went on. “That second sheet—typed on an old machine. Information I never had. Enough to make me think it might not be too late.”

Franco exhaled, sat back. “You remember why I hate that year? I lost him. Had eyes on him all day. Then a call came in—woman’s voice, smooth as a late-night jazz club. Said she had something important, but wouldn’t say what. I took the bait. Ten minutes later, he was dead.”

“You think she was in on it?”

“I know she was.” His face flickered with pain. “Tanya. Last time I heard her voice, she vanished—like smoke. Been kicking myself ever since. And thinking back—the way we met? By chance? Yeah, chance my foot.”

The chowder arrived, thick steam rising. Franco got another lager; Arnie a coffee. The weight of that year hung between them. Arnie ripped open a packet of croutons, poured them into his chowder, stirred. Then, spoon in hand, he walked Franco through the new material, punctuating points as if marking them on a map. Together they sketched out the day of the murder—times, locations, gaps. Franco filled in details Arnie had either forgotten or never known.

By the time they stepped outside, the evening air was cool, sharp with mud season. Digby trotted ahead, nose busy with the scents of Main Street. Neither man noticed the woman two doors down in yoga gear, tote bag over her shoulder, slowing as she passed.

Connie Clark had just left Tria Yoga with a bundle of extra mats for Stonegate’s new “on the floor” class. She spotted Franco instantly. He wasn’t the type you met for idle chatter. She pulled her phone from her bag, thumbed out a quick message, and kept walking.

By the time Arnie made it back to Stonegate, the rec room lights were low but the Bridge Club was waiting. Evelyn sat at her usual spot, hands folded like she was opening a committee meeting. Connie leaned back in her chair with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. Royce, arms crossed, looked ready to frisk him at the door.

“Evening,” Arnie said, aiming for casual. Digby padded past, claiming his bed, oblivious to the tribunal.

“You want to tell us why you were sneaking into Harlow’s with Franco tonight?” she asked innocently.

Royce cut in before Arnie could answer. “And don’t tell us it was for the fish and chips—we know better.”

Evelyn’s steely stare left no doubt: he wasn’t getting out of here without spilling the beans.

Arnie sighed, offering his mock surrender—unzipping his jacket, dropping into the waiting chair.

He ran a hand across his jaw, feeling the tension settle against old aches. His voice, when it came, was lower than usual.

“I got a message.”

He paused, watching Digby settle with his favorite chew toy. The memory of the last time he dragged them into danger lingered heavy. He looked up slowly, buying time—careful to find the right way to frame what he was about to share.

“From someone who knows something about an old case.”

“What kind of message?” Evelyn’s voice was calm but sharp.

“A man dropped off an envelope. Didn’t stick around.”

Royce frowned. “Describe him.”

“Medium build, blue windbreaker, Red Sox cap. I pressed him more about the guy who gave it to him—said it was some man in the parking lot.”

Royce closed his eyes, steadying himself on the back of the wing chair. They’d seen this before. Years on the postal routes had turned him into a visual sponge—faces, doorways, stray habits. He might not always remember names, but he never forgot a walk, a slouch, the way someone carried themselves.

“Any more to go on—age, height, quirks?” he asked.

“Not much,” Arnie admitted. “Mid-twenties, maybe. Under six feet. Jeans, blue jacket, nothing flashy. Clean-shaven, youthful face. One oddity—sandy blond hair under the cap, streaked with a line of red dye.”

Royce’s brow furrowed. He rocked slightly, as if flipping through an inner Rolodex. A minute passed, then another. Finally, a faint smile crept in.

“I’ve seen him,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “Not often, but enough. Kid like that doesn’t blend the way he thinks he does.”

That was all it took. Connie’s eyes lit with mischief. Evelyn leaned in. Royce opened his eyes, straightened up and rubbed his hands together like a Boy Scout about to spark a fire without matches.

The Bridge Club investigation had begun—whether Arnie liked it or not.

Chapter 3 – Mapping it Out

Stonegate Dining Hall – Tuesday Morning

Shattuck Hall smelled of toast and coffee, the clatter of dishes underscored by twangy country music from the speakers. Someone new was running the kitchen playlist—this morning, John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads drifted through the hall, earnest and scratchy, like it had waited years in the jukebox for its chance.

The Bridge Club sat at their usual table by the windows—prime real estate. From here, they could watch every entrance and exit, catch stray bits of conversation, and in Royce’s case, keep close to the buffet bar. Digby held court beneath the window, rope toy planted between his paws like a trophy.

Arnie, pencil parked behind his ear, was half-absorbed in the New York Times crossword, notepad nudged aside. Evelyn and Connie sat shoulder to shoulder, their place settings already crowded out by Royce’s latest project. Evelyn nursed her tea and a currant scone. Connie fussed with a peach yogurt parfait topped with granola and berries.

Royce had spread an enormous, yellowed map across the table, elbows pinning it flat. Its creases were soft from years of folding, edges frayed, corners torn. Red Sharpie marks scarred the surface, intersections bleeding through like old wounds.

“Good grief,” Connie said, sliding her bowl away from an encroaching fold. “This looks like one of those maps from gas stations—remember when they checked your oil, washed your windshield, and handed you S&H Green Stamps for a fill-up?”

“They were green for a reason—pure mildew,” Evelyn replied without looking up. “You can still get full service in New Jersey—by law. No oil checks now, but you can still leave a tip.”

Royce dabbed jelly off his cheek with a napkin, chewing the last of his muffin. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but could we focus? We’ve got a red-streaked messenger to find.” He jabbed the Sharpie onto the map. “Who’s in?”

Connie raised her eyebrows at Evelyn. Evelyn calmly reached for the toothpick holder, snapped one short, and held them out. Connie drew the stub. Evelyn allowed the faintest smile.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You ride shotgun.”

Royce leaned further over the map, as if he hadn’t heard. “We start here,” he said, circling Stonegate. “First stop—Hamlin’s Garage. I was there for my inspection last month. Swear I saw a guy with red streaks in his hair. Blue coveralls.”

“Can’t believe your car passed with all that duct tape,” Evelyn muttered.

Connie snorted. “I can’t believe you ever got behind the wheel, Ev.”

“One reason I defer to you for this trip.” Evelyn’s eyes twinkled.

“And the other reason?” Connie pressed.

“My hips still haven’t forgiven me for Operation Corkscrew. I was on Advil for a week. At least now its only arthritis slowing me down.”

While they bantered, Royce traced a bold line from Stonegate to Hamlin’s. “Second stop—Brady’s Grill. Saw a guy taking a smoke break out back. Red streak in his hair caught the sun. Could’ve been him.”

“You mean the line cook?” Connie asked.

“Maybe.” Royce’s gaze drifted. “Brady’s Bowl. Mashed potatoes, fried popcorn chicken, corn, gravy—crispy onions on top—”

“Royce.” Evelyn snapped her fingers in front of his face.

He blinked. “Right. Red hair. Moving on.” He traced another line. “Last stop—the hospital.

When I was laid up, I thought I saw red streaks float past. Could’ve been him.”

“Or a candy striper,” Connie said sweetly. “Sure you weren’t hallucinating peppermint swirls?”

Royce ignored her, circling the spot and connecting the dots into a rough triangle. “If we don’t find him at one of these, we’re down to a stakeout. Has to be a walker, not a driver.”

Connie tilted her head. “Why?”

“Observation,” Royce said. “You can’t pick someone in the time it takes to pull up in a car. But the library lot’s a cut-through. Folks walk down the stairs behind the library, cross Pine, keep going. I’ve used it myself plenty.”

Arnie finally lifted his head from the crossword, furrowed his brow, pursed his lips—the thinking face. He gave a single nod. Approval granted. Then back to seventeen-across, though his mind wasn’t on the puzzle. Claire’s voice nagged him—leave it to the authorities—but he knew he couldn’t. Not now. The past was calling.

“If this guy knows something,” Evelyn said quietly, “we need to find him before someone else does. He delivered a message meant to stay hidden.”

Satisfied, Royce began folding the map in practiced motions, its creases carrying the grease stains and doodled routes of a lifetime. “Well then,” he said, glancing at Connie. “Ready to track down our red-haired guy?”

Connie leaned back, arms crossed, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

The speakers shifted again. Roger Miller’s King of the Road swaggered through the hall. Royce puffed out his chest, trying to match the bravado.

Connie and Evelyn exchanged a look, shook their heads in unison, and let him have his moment.

Chapter 4 – Walker, Helmet, Action

 

Stonegate / Peterborough

Royce was already halfway to the car when Connie stopped short.

“Reception first,” she said. “Kitchen’s closed for deep clean, so the potluck’s moved to next Thursday. If I don’t tell them, we’ll have half the building showing up tonight with Jell-O molds and crockpots.”

Royce rolled his eyes, tugging at the hood of his sweatshirt, aviator sunglasses perched like a dare. “Fine. But we’re on a clock.”

At the front desk, Phylis Hudderbing was parked with her walker, tennis balls squeaking faintly against the tile. She brightened when she saw them.

“Oh, thank heavens. I missed the shuttle and need to pick up my prescription at CVS. You’ll take me, won’t you?”

Royce winced behind the shades. “Can I take you later? We’ve got a…time-sensitive errand.”

Connie gave him a look sharp enough to cut wire. “Oh, come on, big boy. If I’m not mistaken, we pass CVS on the way to the first stop.”

Royce’s jaw worked like a man chewing nails. Finally, he forced a smile through clenched teeth. “I’ll pull around.”

Phylis beamed, scooting forward. Connie took her arm with all the grace of a woman escorting royalty.

Outside, Phylis popped open the satchel in her walker basket and produced a helmet, leather gloves, and wraparound sunglasses. She slipped them on with practiced ease, finishing the ensemble with a scarf knotted tight under her chin.

Royce pulled the sedan up and froze. “You look dressed for a takedown. No leather jacket?”

“That’s in my room,” Phylis said, deadpan. “You said you were in a hurry, so this Afghan sweater will have to do.”

Connie snorted, snapped a quick photo on her phone, and tapped out a message. “Sorry, had to share. Evelyn will be jealous she’s missing out.”

Royce wrestled the walker into the trunk. Connie leaned against the car with a smirk. “Good deed for the day, Royce. I see a brownie—maybe—in your future. But don’t get comfortable. There’s more work ahead.”

“You know how to hurt a guy.”

The CVS drive-through was a fiasco. Royce fumbled Phylis’s information through the tinny speaker until the pharmacist gave up. Muttering, he escorted her inside. Thirty minutes later, they were back on the road, Phylis humming happily in the back seat.

First Stop: Hamlin’s Garage

Connie swiveled the rearview mirror, puckered twice, flashed a wide smile, then nodded to herself. Game face on. She popped the door open just as Phylis leaned forward from the back seat.

“You two look like you’re casing the place. Should I be nervous?”

Connie paused, one foot out. “You should be flattered. Not everyone gets a front-row seat.” With that, she slid out, shutting the door behind her.

Royce drummed the steering wheel while Phylis adjusted her scarf, both of them watching Connie work the desk inside.

When she returned, Connie dropped into the passenger seat with a sigh. “Yes, the red-streaked fellow worked here. No, the manager wasn’t in. And the guy at the desk wouldn’t give me a name. I left my card.”

Royce grunted, throwing the car into gear. “Next stop.”

Meanwhile – Stonegate Grounds

Arnie strolled the path with Digby tugging ahead, phone pressed to his ear.

“Boston Beacon, reception.”

“Hi, is Sean Cahill still working there?”

“One moment.”

“Cahill.”

“Sean—it’s Arnie. Still hanging on?”

“One year to retirement,” Sean said, dry as toast. “Riding it out. Last I heard you’d gone recluse.”

“Something like that. Still handling archives?”

“You kidding? Everything’s digital before the ink’s dry.”

“Rephrase. You still have access to wet copies? Pre-edit drafts?”

A chuckle. “Same old Arnie. Skip the pleasantries and go straight for the good stuff. Yeah,

I’ve got access. Not digitized. Filed here.”

“Any chance I can come in?”

“Tell you what. Monday, three o’clock. You’ve got two hours. You buy the beer afterward.”

“Done.”

Second Stop: Brady’s Grill

Royce slipped out of the driver’s seat. “I’ll do the talking. Connie, you keep Phylis company.”

“If you order the Brady Bowl,” Connie warned, “I’ll know. Ten minutes.”

“Uh-huh.” He ducked inside.

Phylis adjusted her scarf. “What exactly are we up to?”

Connie hesitated, then decided there was no point in being coy. “Looking for a messenger. Red hair, streaked.”

Phylis’s lips pursed in thought, but she said nothing.

Royce reappeared five minutes later, empty-handed. “Dishwashers here are day-by-day. Cash only. No records. But I swear I saw him.”

“In the reflection of your gravy bowl, maybe,” Connie teased. “When was the last time you were here?”

Royce paused. “A while ago.” He was learning: fewer words, safer ground.

Final Stop: Monadnock Hospital

Phylis stayed in the car, recounting her hip replacement saga while Royce and Connie checked at reception. Through the glass doors, Royce spotted him: red-streaked hair, moving casually across the lot.

“Hey!” Royce barked, barreling forward. The door resisted until Connie smacked the handicap button, and the pair surged out.

The red-haired man glanced back, eyes wide, then bolted.

Phylis, stretching her legs, saw him coming. With perfect timing, she shoved her walker sideways. The man tripped, sprawling to the asphalt.

Royce and Connie arrived in tandem. Royce loomed over him. “Got a name?”

The man started to scramble up—bonk. Phylis whacked him neatly on the crown with her helmet.

Royce blinked, then grinned. “Phylis, you are handy to have around. Do you moonlight as security?”

She planted the helmet back on her head. “Badda bing, badda bang. That’s how we do it at Stonegate. Now, who’s up for Jell-O?”

Chapter 5 – The Cut Through

Stonegate Basement

The basement at Stonegate had been hastily converted—part interrogation chamber, part tea room.  A single bulb swung overhead, shadows stretching like long fingers across the cinderblock walls.

The red-haired fellow slumped in a chair, ankles and one wrist neatly bound in hot pink duct tape—Royce’s handiwork, layered with a prideful precision that suggested practice. A chipped teacup sat within reach. A scone waited tantalizingly at the far end of the table, just out of range. Beside it, a blinking recorder—Franco’s contribution—clicked quietly, patient and impartial.

Evelyn sat at the table, knitting needles clicking in rhythm. The rest of the Bridge Club lingered in the shadows, watchful.

“I’ll take the lead,” Evelyn declared, eyes still on her yarn.

Connie arched a brow. “Pray tell?”

Evelyn’s knitting never paused. “Not only have I been abducted,” she said, sliding a pearl stitch into place, “I’ve coaxed countless patrons into admitting what they did with unreturned library books. And I always collected the late fees. Experience matters.”

The captive stirred, groaned, and blinked awake.

“That’s quite a bump on your head,” Evelyn said smoothly. “There’s an ice pack if you’d like it. And tea—Earl Grey. Civilized, don’t you think? Cooperate, and I may even upgrade you to Double Bergamot.”

The man’s eyes darted, wild. “Where the hell am I? Who are you? What do you want? You can’t just—” He tugged at the duct tape, startled.

Royce grinned, hand raised for a high-five. Connie ignored him; Phylis, ever game, delivered a gloved fist bump.

“Slow down,” Evelyn soothed. “We only need a little information. Then you’re free to go—with tea and a pastry.”

The man eyed the cup, then cautiously sipped. His mouth twisted. “This is civil? No sugar?”

“It’s after nine, darling. But for good behavior … “ Evelyn reached back without missing a stitch. From the shadows, two packets dropped neatly into her hand. She slid them across. He ripped one open with his teeth, stirred with his finger, and drank again.

“Your name?” Evelyn asked.

A pause. Then a sigh. “Jackson.”

“Not common these days.”

“My dad was a Yankees fan. Reggie Jackson. Figured naming me was the next best thing.”

“You’ve told that story before,” Evelyn murmured. “Now—tell me about the person who gave you the envelope at the library.”

Jackson rubbed his temple, reached for the ice pack. “Like I told the other guy. Library lot.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The patio,” he said. “I’d just come down the stone steps from Main. He was at one of the tables. Said, ‘Excuse me, you dropped something.’ Then handed me an envelope off the ground. Asked me to deliver it to the Listener guy. Slipped me a couple of Jacksons for my trouble.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. “So first he claims you dropped it, then pays you to deliver it? Odd, don’t you think?”

From the back, Arnie’s voice floated out. “Oldest trick in the book. Confuse a man, grease his palm, he won’t look too close.”

Jackson shrugged. “Money talks. And it’s a library. What’s safer than that?”

“What else do you remember?” Evelyn pressed.

Jackson frowned, shifting the ice pack. He snapped his fingers. “The gum,” he said suddenly. “Licorice. Strong. I’ve got a sharp nose for scents. He pulled off his gloves, unwrapped a stick right there, popped it in his mouth. The smell carried—sweet, sharp, almost medicinal. Stuck with me.”

Evelyn leaned forward slightly. “Licorice gum.”

“Yeah. He crumpled the wrapper in his hand, dropped it on the patio when he walked me to the door.” Jackson wrinkled his nose. “I’d know that smell anywhere.”

“Anything else your nose picked up?” she asked.

Jackson took another sip of Earl Gray and settled the teacup back down. He looked up to towards the ceiling and it was as if he was sniffing the air. Then with squinting eyes he said “actually yes. The smell of high-class leather. I grew up around furniture stores—could spot a leather sofa or chair by smell alone.”

Evelyn’s needles stopped mid-click. “Spare me the nostalgia. What kind of gloves?”

Jackson snapped out of it “sorry. The guy had top of the line leather gloves. He took them off when he pulled out the gum. I remember both those smells vividly. They were like driving gloves, not weather gloves. Not something you see every day.”

Arnie tugged a notepad from his jacket and scribbled. Worth following up. He’d leave the wrapper to the Bridge Club gumshoes.

Evelyn pushed the scone over as if rewarding the information.

“And what did he look like?” she continued.

“Didn’t pay much attention,” Jackson admitted. “Dark hat, dark glasses, dark clothes. Just… regular. Not tall, not short. Not heavy, not skinny. Couldn’t pick him out again if you lined up ten men.”

Evelyn’s needles stilled. “And you told the Listener he said something else—that he’d know what it meant. True?”

Jackson hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. He said that.”

Evelyn gestured toward the scone. “For that detail, you’ve earned it.”

Jackson managed a small smile, tipping the teacup and swirling the remaining liquid before taking one last swallow.

Royce stepped from the shadows, peeling away duct tape with relish. “Come on, pal. Let’s get you on your way.”

Jackson shuffled out with Royce’s guiding arm, still clutching the ice pack.

The Bridge Club sat in silence for a beat. Evelyn’s knitting resumed, needles clicking softly.

Connie broke it. “That wrapper. If it’s still on the patio, we’ll find it.”

Arnie adjusted his glasses. “Franco might be able to analyze—brand, distribution, maybe even traces. Could tell us more.”

“What about DNA?” Connie asked.

“Good thought,” Arnie said, “but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’d need Mendez at Concord PD for that, and I don’t want to call her in unless we’re sure. My bet’s on the gloves first.”

They had all but forgotten Phylis, still sitting primly at the edge of the shadows. She spoke at last. “Black. The guy wears black, the guy chews black. You’re looking for someone who lives in it, breathes in it. I wonder if they make black Jell-O.”

The group blinked at her. Arnie recovered first, pen scratching again. “Noted.”

Evelyn allowed herself a small smile. “Then we know our next move. On to the library patio.

And we’ll take Digby. I trust his nose.”

At the sound of his name, Digby bounded over, ears perked, wearing his best ready-for-a-cookie face.

Arnie handed Connie the leash and moved toward the door. “I’ll let you all get to it.”

Chapter 6 – Sticky Business

Stonegate / Peterborough Library / Candy Store

Sunday afternoon brought a shift in mood. The interrogation was behind them, and Stonegate hummed with spring energy. Daffodils nudged up through the walkways. The garden club convened its first outdoor meeting, and someone had dragged out the croquet wickets for a trial run. Seniors shuffled about in tennis shoes, though for Royce, shorts were a year-round commitment, knee-length and always paired with his signature black socks.

In the foyer, the Bridge Club assembled, Phylis in tow. Connie held Digby’s leash; the dog bounced with anticipation, as if expecting a drive-thru at the end. Evelyn stood ready in what could only be described as her “forensics uniform”—clipboard tucked under her arm, rubber gloves snapped snugly, gallon-sized baggies sticking from a pocket, and a long-handled grabber tool she’d borrowed from housekeeping.

Royce eyed Phylis as she shuffled forward. She had gone full camouflage: jacket, pants, black streaks under her eyes, and a bright orange hunter’s cap perched on top. Her walker’s basket bulged with supplies, threatening to spill at any moment.

“What’s with the outfit?” Royce asked.

“This is a hunt,” Phylis declared.

“No animals will be harmed, correct?”

“I can’t promise what’ll happen if a squirrel crosses my path,” she said with a sly smile.

They set off toward Royce’s car, no rush this time—it was barely a mile. Connie tightened Digby’s lead. “I’ll walk him over and get his nose warmed up. We’ll meet you there.”

Arnie had chosen solitude. Back in his apartment, the manila envelope sat on his table. The headline circled in red: You got this wrong. He rubbed his jaw. The exposé on Mayor Campbell’s conspiracy with public works contractors—faked invoices, padded projects, stolen funds—had always seemed airtight. How could it be wrong?

He lifted the receiver and dialed.

“Arnie,” Franco answered. “Calling in another order of chowdah and lager?”

“Business,” Arnie said. “The delivery kid added details. The man who gave him the envelope wore black Dents driving gloves. Could you check availability, maybe track where they’re sold?”

“Not exactly a Walmart item,” Franco mused. “Did he see a car?”

“No.”

“I’ll poke around. And—don’t tell Royce—but I mounted a discreet webcam near the library steps. Been meaning to check the footage.”

Arnie exhaled. “You’re ever resourceful. Thanks.”

“You said a couple details. What’s the other?”

“Chewing gum. Black licorice. The gang’s out looking for it now.”

Franco chuckled. “Keeps them busy.”

At the Peterborough library, Royce swung into a handicap spot, emboldened by Phylis’s presence. Evelyn climbed out, already tugging on shoe covers and snapping her gloves. She wielded the trash picker like a weapon. Royce escorted Phylis to the patio bench, where she promptly withdrew a pair of binoculars from her basket and began scanning the lawn.

Royce wandered the patio, then slipped a six-pack of peanut butter crackers from his pocket, peeling one open with relish.

Minutes later, Connie arrived with Digby at her side. The dog’s tail whipped back and forth. She held the last bite of a cookie. Their eyes met across the patio: Royce saw the cookie, Connie saw the cracker. A silent nod sealed their understanding.

Digby got to work, nose low, circling the stone patio. Within minutes he nosed up against the wall, tail stiff. Evelyn swooped in, picker snapping like a talon. Royce held the bag open as she dropped in the prize: a wadded gum wrapper.

Connie smoothed the plastic bag. The brand name showed clear: Black Jack.

“You don’t find this in the checkout line,” Royce said, assuming the air of a connoisseur. “Specialty shops or online only. I think I know a place nearby.”

“

Why don’t you and Phylis go?” Evelyn suggested. “Connie, Digby, and I will head back.”

Royce smirked. “If you snag another cookie, grab one for me.”

The two set off toward Main Street. Phylis remained planted on her bench, peering through binoculars.

“Phylis,” Royce called, “we’ve got the wrapper.”

She waved him down. “Hand me my slingshot—there’s a rabbit over there. Haven’t had rabbit stew in ages.”

Royce leaned over her basket. Sure enough, a slingshot lay nestled between thermoses and knitting magazines. “Not today. We’ve got a candy store to visit.”

Phylis looked crestfallen but rose. Together, they headed for his car.

The little bell above the door jingled as Royce guided Phylis into Life Is Sweet, a riot of glass jars and pastel boxes stacked high behind the counter. The place smelled like spun sugar and nostalgia.

A lanky teenager with a shock of purple hair shuffled forward, leaning heavily on the counter. His name tag read: Life is sweet – Candy is sweeter and “Zack” in bubble-gum pink sharpie ink.

“Help you find something?” His tone suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Black Jack gum,” Royce said.

The kid blinked. “Not a common ask.” He ducked down, rattling through drawers, and popped up with a dusty little pack, holding it aloft like treasure.

Phylis leaned in as far as her walker would allow. “Let me sample one,” she announced.

Royce pointed. “We’ll buy a pack.”

“Throw in some licorice bites too,” Phylis added. “Good for a quick hit.”

The clerk dropped both onto the counter. As he rang them up, Royce asked, “Ever get regulars for this stuff? Black Jack, I mean.”

“First I’ve seen it leave the drawer. Ever.”

Royce’s brow furrowed. “You keep records?”

“No clue. Come back when the manager’s here—she actually cares.”

Phylis tore the corner off the licorice bites and popped one into her mouth before Royce even had the change back. “Not bad,” she said, lips blackened.

Royce steered her toward the door with a sigh. “You’re supposed to savor it.”

“Already did,” Phylis replied, licking her lips.

Later that evening, Royce and Phylis returned to Stonegate’s rec room. Evelyn, Connie, Digby, and Arnie had already reclaimed their usual perches.

“You were gone awhile,” Connie said. “Any luck on the gum front?”

Royce flopped into a chair. “As expected—not easy to find. CVS, Shaw’s, Roy’s? Forget it.

Had to drive out to Keene. Life Is Sweet Candy Store.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Phylis grinned wide, revealing teeth tinted black. “Bingo, bango, bongo.”

Chapter 7 – Arnie’s Big Dig

 

Trip to Boston

Royce was out of commission for chauffeur duty—Phylis had a sit-down archery competition, and he’d promised to escort her. Not just escort—manage her purse, too. Phylis was the reigning champion in the Yeoman 90 classification, with a side hustle taking wagers on how many bullseyes she could stack from twenty yards. Royce was to be her eyes on the money while she kept hers on the target.

“Take Lewis and Clark,” he told Arnie. “They’ll get you there. And probably bring you back.”

Lewis and Clark weren’t explorers, though they’d argue otherwise. They’d met years ago in Stonegate’s TV lounge, discovered a shared love of vaudeville, and had been inseparable ever since. Abbott & Costello, Laurel & Hardy, even Lewis & Dean—they knew all the routines. Their pièce de résistance was the “Archie Bunker’s sock and a sock” bit with Michael Stivic (Meathead), which cracked Royce up every time.

Now they had a shuttle business with the slogan: We take you places … and even get you home. Arnie knew what that really meant: nonstop bickering. With a pair of earplugs, he figured he’d survive.

He sketched a checklist—train out of Fitchburg or bus out of Nashua. Both forty minutes, no clear winner. The bus won out: hourly departures, more flexibility. It stopped at South instead of North Station, but that only added a short walk to Beacon Hill. Arnie’s creed was simple—walk when you can. Take the stairs.

That morning Connie stopped by to pick up Digby. “We’re going out on the town,” she announced. The old beagle bounded to her side, tail wagging like a propeller. Only good things ever happened when Digby went with Connie.

“What about Evelyn?” Arnie asked.

“She’s with Royce and Phylis,” Connie said. “Something about a William Tell shoot-out. Apples on heads. Librarian curiosity got the better of her.”

Arnie shook his head. At least Digby was safe.

The orange-and-white VW Wagon idled outside Stonegate’s main doors at 11:30. Arnie carried his satchel—supplies, a sesame bagel, and those all-important earplugs.

Lewis was at the wheel in a Scottish cap and leather jacket. Clark, barely five-four, stood by the open side door with a step stool, dressed in a bellhop cap like Jerry Lewis.

“Lewis, I think we have a customer.”

“Clark, right where we want him.” Then to Arnie: “Step this way—your chariot awaits.”

Arnie climbed in, made for the very back. “Need room to stretch my legs,” he said evenly.

Earplugs went in before they left the lot. By then Lewis and Clark were arguing about mustard and job loss, their timing flawless, their volume relentless.

At the Nashua station, Arnie told them he’d call if he needed a pickup, though he hoped Royce would be back in circulation by then. With Phylis, that was never guaranteed.

The bus rolled into South Station just past two. He had an hour before his meeting with Cahill.

Boston in April—cool, restless, alive. America’s walking city.

Arnie headed north on Summer Street, past the glass-roofed promenade, tide of commuters swirling. He remembered meeting an informant there once—easy to blend in, easy to vanish.

Winter Street tugged at him like a memory. He always felt that shift from Summer to Winter in his bones. At Tremont he swung right, past Park Street Station on the Common’s edge, familiar ground from his Red Line days. A quick coffee, then on to One Beacon. He arrived at 2:55 sharp. Prompt as ever.

Cahill came down to meet him. Age had softened him: bald crown, gray beard, slacks bagged at the knees, shirt collar stained. A pencil clipped to his pocket had leaked graphite down the front. Readers dangled from a chain. His rubber-soled shoes looked ready for retirement.

“Arnie,” he said, checking the clock. “Like a Rolex—timely and dependable. Save the chatter for later.”

He signed Arnie in, led him toward a service elevator. “I know you’re a stair guy, but me—lifelong member of the Stair Avoidance Society. Remind me what you’re after again?”

“’94. Raw materials. Wet edits. Spotlight Series.”

The elevator groaned downward, caged and rattling, as if reconsidering its career. At B3 the mesh doors scraped open.

Motion-sensor lights flickered alive, revealing a maze of wire-mesh cages stacked with boxes, cabinets, abandoned furniture. Dust hung thick as memory. Arnie had worked at the Beacon for years but had never come down here. Materials had always been delivered—late. Now he knew why. Evelyn would have taken one look at this tomb and bolted.

Cahill waved a hand. “Each cage broken out by section, then year and month. Nothing after January 2000—Y2K spooked management. Fire inspectors called it a tinderbox, tried to force removal. Paper fought back, called it historical record. Personally, I call it payback for the Spotlight mess. You remember.”

“Can’t take credit for that one.”

“Maybe not, but you had your share.”

They reached a cage marked 94. Cahill unlocked it. Inside: a battered desk, a chair, endless shelves.

“This is your home for the next two hours. Nothing comes out. No photos—cameras everywhere. Security will take your phone. Yellow pads and pencils if you came empty, which I doubt.”

Arnie stepped in. The gate clanged shut.

“I’ll be back at five,” Cahill said. “Then we’ll hit the Dubliner for a pint while the rest of Boston fights traffic.”

Arnie nodded. Satchel down, jacket off, sleeves rolled. The cage loomed like a vault. Two hours wasn’t much. Time to dig in.

Upstairs, Cahill pulled out his phone and sent a short text.

He’s in. Will keep you posted.

Chapter 8 – You Got That Wrong

One Beacon – Basement Archives

Arnie pulled back the metal chair from under the relic of a table, the scraping echo bouncing off storage boxes stacked on shelves and along the walls. He sat, tugged the brass chain on the old banker’s lamp, and let its dull yellow glow spill across the desk, catching the dust motes in the air.

He’d come prepared—Evelyn’s survival kit: Handi-Wipes, dust spray, cloth rag, freezer bags, kitchen gloves, and a P90 mask, all stowed in his satchel. Beneath the gloves rested a big chocolate chip cookie and a cluster of black Jell-O cubes—Connie and Phylis’s handiwork, no doubt.

Clearing space, Arnie opened the manila envelope and slid out the article. Ritual mattered. Order and preparation helped separate memory from motive. He began to read:

Spotlight – Kickbacks Permeate City Hall – October 17, 1994

For more than a year, The Beacon’s Spotlight team has tracked a web of secret payments flowing between city contractors and officials at Boston’s highest levels. Public records, confidential sources, and financial audits reveal a pattern: companies seeking lucrative municipal work routed thousands in illicit cash and gifts to intermediaries with direct ties to City Hall, raising urgent questions about the integrity of Boston’s public projects and the use of your tax dollars.

His eyes locked on a handwritten note in the margin—YOU GOT THAT WRONG. Block letters written in a way it would be hard to detect the author.

The marked passage read:

Mayor Campbell’s financial fingerprints are all over the bank records showing the transfers from city accounts to offshore shell companies used for outsourcing critical public works supplies. He’s always said the buck stops with him. Our findings show the buck flowed through him. Mayor Campbell and his representatives refuse to cooperate or be interviewed for this story.

A red line circled buck flowed through him, pointing to the curt correction: YOU GOT THAT WRONG.

Arnie flipped to another piece—Mayor Campbell Resigns in Disgrace. No confession, no denial. Just guilt by association—and omission.

Time was short. Arnie stood, stretched, and walked to the shelves along the wall closest to the table. Hanging from a chain was a clipboard directory. He scanned the list and found his target: C7 – Spotlight, 1994, October–December. No high-tech systems down here, save for the camera overhead keeping watch.

Beneath the clipboard leaned a banged-up dolly. Arnie grabbed the handles and rolled it toward C7. On the middle row, three boxes sat together. He pulled them down and stacked them. One box was September—he returned it. What stopped him cold was the look of the others. Not decades old. No thick coat of dust. These had been packed recently.

Back at the table, unpacking confirmed his hunch. He jotted a reminder: Check with Cahill—entry log for cages.

Arnie’s method was always the same: first pass, sort, pull what mattered. After an hour he’d done just that, condensing the excess into two boxes, lids closed. Forty-five minutes left. No way he could finish.

He asked himself a question he’d recently started using in tight spots: WWED—What Would Evelyn Do? She’d cut to the core. No dithering. No waffling.

Step one: secure the most critical items. His eyes went to the interview cassettes—three of them, the ones he’d used. No player, no way to listen here. Inspiration struck. He unwrapped more Handi-Wipes, staged another wipe-down, then swaddled the cassettes and slipped them into a freezer bag.

Step two: capture what else he could. For forty minutes he worked steadily—bank records, raw drafts of the article, unrecorded transcripts, photos. A list of interviewees caught his eye: names, contact details, short bios. Outdated, but useful. He scribbled notes in his tight shorthand until the metallic screech of the elevator doors cut him off.

Lumbering footsteps splashed into the air strengthening in tone and purpose. Cahill filled the cage entry, coat slung over one shoulder. “Time to pack it up and grab a cold one.” His ritual sendoff, like some half-remembered Hill Street Blues slogan.

“All set,” Arnie said, moving quickly to stack the boxes onto the dolly.

“I’ll handle that. You get your things.” Cahill waved him off, placing the last box on top and wheeled the load himself.

Grateful for the moment, Arnie tucked the freezer bag into his satchel. Two minutes later,

Cahill returned. Together they locked the cage, crossed to the freight elevator, and rode up in silence.

The doors opened on Pemberton Square, the Dubliner Pub just a stone’s throw away.

Arnie stepped into the daylight with the unsettling sense he’d just walked through a play staged for his benefit. Someone had set him up. But who? And why?

One thing was certain—he wouldn’t be sleeping on the ride back

Chapter 9 – Caught on Tape

 

Downtown Boston / Ride Back to Peterborough

Cahill swung the pub door open as if inviting Arnie into his living room. Inside The Dubliner, live Irish folk music threaded through the dark mahogany space. They worked their way through the crowd until Cahill flagged the bartender with a few hand signs.

“Easier this way,” he said. “Hope you’re good with Guinness, large.”

Two perfect pints landed in front of them in under thirty seconds.

“My kind of barista,” Cahill grinned, swiping foam off his mouth before steering Arnie toward an empty beer barrel table. Standing room only.

“Find what you were looking for today?” he asked.

Arnie wasn’t much for Guinness, but he played along, took a sip. “Not sure.”

“You’ve got that hunter’s look. Question is—for what?”

Arnie hesitated. Cahill might have insight, but no reason to tip his whole hand. He went with the line he’d prepared.

“Buzz in New Hampshire is O’Sullivan’s about to throw in for the primary. I’m trying to recall if he had any part in the Public Works kickback scandal.”

Cahill raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t heard that one. He’s been off grid for years.” Half his pint was already gone. “So—did he?”

“Don’t know. Two hours in the archives barely scratches the itch. Try two hundred.”

“If anyone can squeeze it out, my money’s on you.” Cahill drained his glass, lifted two fingers for another round. They swapped old stories, Cahill weaving in retirement plans of Florida, fishing, and grandkids.

After an hour, Arnie’s first pint was still half full. “Gotta catch the next bus.”

Cahill polished off the rest of Arnie’s glass without asking. They pulled on coats and spilled into Cambridge Street, “Brown Eyed Girl” fading into city noise.

“You’ve got an open tab here, I take it?” Arnie asked.

Cahill only smiled. At Park Street Station, they exchanged noncommittal goodbyes.

“Need more time in the archives? I can work something out,” Cahill offered, starting down the stairs.

Arnie watched him go. Soft in the middle maybe, but never soft upstairs.

Glancing at his watch—6:37—he crossed Tremont, cut down Winter, and headed for South Station. If anyone had eyes on him, they’d see nothing unusual. At Summer and Lincoln he slipped into the Starbucks on the corner.

A small black coffee rinsed out the Guinness as he joined Franco, already seated with prime sightlines.

“Good to see you on my turf,” Franco said. “Productive afternoon?”

“Very.” That was enough.

Franco slid a brown bag across the table. Inside: a battered Walkman and headphones.

“Perfect,” Arnie said.

“A little intel too,” Franco added. “Reviewed the library footage. Couldn’t ID the guy handing off the envelope—pro. Never looked up, never exposed his face. But I got a zoom on his gloves. Kid was right—new Dents drivers. High end. Might be traceable. Stills are in the bag.”

“Thanks.”

“One more thing,” Arnie said, pulling a notepad. “These names—can you get me current whereabouts? Been thirty years. I need to know who’s still above ground and how to reach them. I starred the priorities.”

Franco photographed the list. “Got it. I’ll be out your way later this week with an update. Anything urgent, just say so.”

Arnie slipped the notepad back in his satchel, stood, and left.

The 8 p.m. Concord Coach carried fewer than ten passengers. Arnie chose the rear, opened the brown bag, and dried cassette one with a napkin. Headphones on, notebook ready, he pressed play.

A younger version of his own voice came tight and focused:June 7th, 1994. 10:20 a.m. Interview with Sheryl Kirkwood, admin to Mayor Campbell.

The bus pulled out as the voices of the past took over.

“Invoices were always paper-generated, dropped off by the contractor. We were told to route them through a third party. No questions asked.”

“O’Sullivan said it was standard procedure. Said it made us audit compliant. I didn’t know what that meant.”

The tape clicked off thirty minutes later. Arnie flipped it, pressed play again. Contractors’ voices this time:

“Never met the Mayor. Proposals went in, instructions came back. No direct contact.”

“You’re asking the wrong questions. Ask who signed off.”

The bus eased into the Peterborough bay just as the second side ended. Outside, waiting under the lights, was Clark—this time in a yellowed wool flannel St. Louis Wolves uniform, complete with painted-on handlebar mustache.

Arnie shook his head, gathering his things.

“Mr. Price,” Clark said warmly. “How was Boston?”

“Just fine.”

“We’ve got complimentary peanuts and Cracker Jack in the back. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I don’t know.” The answer was automatic—and immediately felt like a mistake. Another trap. Another test.

From the driver’s seat, Lewis turned with his own painted mustache and bellowed, “Third base!”

And they were off, launching into a full-throated Who’s on First routine.

He didn’t know what he’d found. Not yet. But someone did—and they were watching. Arnie shoved in his earplugs. No way he could focus on another cassette. Better to close his eyes, let the past voices swirl on their own.

Back in Boston, a text thread had already wrapped.

Did he take the bait?Yes. Handi-swiped. Caught it on tape. As if there was any doubt. Keep me posted.

👍

Chapter 10 – You’ve Got Mail

Stonegate Patio

The group text came from Royce at 9:15 sharp:

Check your mail. Patio, 11 a.m.

By the time they gathered outside Stonegate’s main doors, the day had opened into one of those rare New Hampshire gifts—a warm, spring morning that carried the promise of green. Birds trilled from the budding maples. Somewhere nearby, a leaf blower whined. Across the parking lot, a street-cleaner lumbered through, sucking up the last grit of winter.

Connie swished out in a floral dress that matched her mood. Evelyn had chosen a knit vest in cheerful pastels; the sort of thing she called her “seasonal transition wear.” Royce, less festive, wore his cut-sleeve hoodie that suggested he might be heading to either a picnic or a lumberjack contest.

They claimed a picnic table on the patio, each clutching the crisp envelope that had arrived in the morning mail.

“Shall I?” Connie raised hers with theatrical flair, and without waiting, slipped the letter free. She read aloud, adding her own inflections as if the words were meant for stage performance:

In recognition of your service above and beyond for the people of New Hampshire, the State hereby awards you the Associate Service Commendation. Your courageous actions in saving a fellow citizen’s life, and your assistance in the apprehension and successful prosecution of a criminal enterprise, reflect great credit upon yourself and your community.

Connie gave the final flourish with a hand to her chest. “And look—there’s to be a formal ceremony. A gala! And we’re each invited to bring a guest.”

Royce slapped the table. “Phylis will be my plus-one.”

Phylis grinned; her teeth blackened from her current obsession with Black Jack gum. She leaned forward, proud as a kid with a prize ribbon. “He’s not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Spoken like a woman in love,” Connie teased.

The laughter faded when Evelyn turned to Arnie. “And now, before we drown in self-congratulation—any progress on your end? Lois Higbottom’s come down with a mild case of Covid, so the rec room is under a deep-clean lockdown. A shame too—we had a Scottish castle puzzle really coming together. But I’ve got time to lend a hand if you need.”

Arnie set his satchel on the table. “Archives gave me more than I bargained for. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being played. The cassettes are still under review, though I’ll say, Evelyn, your help in shaping my approach paid off.”

Evelyn nodded, pleased.

“Franco’s checking into a contact list I found. He’s traced three names of interest so far: Sandra Reilly—Campbell’s chief of staff. Vinnie Pantinari—contractor, biggest payout went through his Seaport Development. And Francis Chapman—worked in City Hall’s accounting office. Whistleblower type.”

Connie tapped her letter. “Better cast than any gala.”

Arnie’s expression tightened, but he said nothing about the Informer. That part, he wasn’t ready to share.

At that moment, Royce’s phone buzzed. His eyebrows rose as he read.

“You want to share?” Connie asked.

Royce cleared his throat, reading aloud. “Massachusetts Senator Patrick O’Sullivan filed paperwork at the Concord State House today, entering the Democratic primary for President of the United States. Announcement rally scheduled tomorrow at the Peterborough Town House.”

Arnie leaned back. “Now the urgency makes sense. The kickback scandal from ’94 didn’t just land in my lap by chance. Someone wants O’Sullivan’s rise questioned.”

“Care to enlighten us?” Evelyn asked.

Arnie hesitated, then said, “Back then, I wrote that Mayor Campbell was the central figure. My article helped topple him—and cleared the way for O’Sullivan. But the message I received says I got it wrong. That Campbell wasn’t the main culprit.”

The group sat in silence, the weight of it settling in like an unwelcome guest.

Finally, Evelyn squared her shoulders. “I’ll research O’Sullivan—look for sponsors, backers, who’s really propping him up. If he’s announcing here, there’s a local tie. I’ll sniff it out.”

Connie was quick to add, “I’ll volunteer for his campaign. No better way to peek behind the curtain. Should get us intel on schedules, maybe even inner-circle chatter.”

Royce leaned forward. “Don’t forget our other lead. Phylis and I are heading back to the candy store to connect with the manager. That Black Jack isn’t exactly stocked in bulk at Market Basket. The source matters.”

Phylis piped in, “Can we stop by Monadnock Knife and Tool on the way? I’ve got an axe-throwing competition coming up. My edges are dull.”

“Of course you do,” Connie said, smiling despite herself.

Arnie scratched Digby’s ear. “I’ll take the tapes for another listen. Walk clears my head. He and I will think it through.” Arnie pulled the Walkman out of his pocket with flimsy headphones attached.

“Tonight then, my place,” Connie declared. “Potluck. Royce, don’t bring anything—half my fridge is Royce leftovers. And I’m still keeping tabs on your See Food diet. I think you’ve been slipping.”

The group broke with their assignments, drifting off in separate directions.

Arnie had barely rounded the corner with Digby when his phone buzzed.

“Arnie Price?” The voice was brisk, female.

“Speaking.”

“Detective Leah Mendez, State Crime Unit. Just wanted to confirm you got the invitation for the award ceremony. Hope you can attend. DCI Richards is flying in from the UK—he’s getting a special consulting award as well.”

Arnie murmured agreement, distracted until she added: “Also, any chance you’ve heard from Franco? We haven’t been able to confirm his attendance.”

“No,” Arnie said carefully.

“Well, I hope he makes it. He’s—well, let’s just say I’d like him there.”

The line clicked off. Arnie slipped the phone back into his pocket, a wry thought crossing his mind. Mendez and Franco. If they ever teamed up, the world wouldn’t know what hit it.