Wayneston police chief Bill Myers sat back down at his desk after Marcia and Swansea left his office. He had half a notion to back out of this whole Martin Fowler affair but decided he may as well follow through with it. He was pissed at himself for letting Marcia with her irresistible beauty get the better of him. The PI’s guilt trip hadn’t helped much either. He was starting to get soft, he thought, after all these years of unyielding commitment and dedication to upholding the law. He wondered if going soft was standard fair after serving this many years on the job or if it was simply his age starting to show.
Although he didn’t want Marcia or Swansea to know it, he didn’t exactly consider it unthinkable that Martin Fowler could be mixed up in something like this. The man truly was strange, eccentric and spent very little time outside of the estate he had inherited from his folks. The chief had wondered on more than one occasion what the man could possibly be doing to keep himself occupied all alone and isolated on that hill.
Truth be told, he knew very little about Martin Fowler, period.
What he did know was that Martin Fowler had spent a hell of a lot more time away from Wayneston than he ever had being here. He had never attended the local schools nor taken part in any of the community events or sports activities while growing up. Fowler’s folks had sent both of their kids away to ritzy private schools in the Northeast, which was as ironic as it was telling about their loftier than thou attitude toward the rest of the town. Despite how much they had enriched and fortified Wayneston through the years they had shown very little interest in being a social part of it. They had lived here, donated tons of money for new buildings and parks, yet their heads were always elsewhere.
The chief could list all that he knew about Martin Fowler in a single paragraph. He knew that he was in his late thirties, had attended Oxford University in England and that he had been an art major. He knew that he had spent most of his time after graduating in Boston and New York, furthering his art studies and learning whatever it is that artists learn. He knew that whenever anyone in town asked him if he would consider doing an art show of some kind so that the locals could see his work that he would always decline, claiming to have not yet created anything worth exhibiting, yet adding that perhaps some day he would.
When Swansea had stated that Fowler was obsessed with the famous painter—that Degas fellow—and that he was photographing models to look like the artist’s paintings, the chief had immediately taken stock. It was doubtful that Swansea knew Fowler was an artist, so this claim had a certain legitimacy to it.
He also knew another thing about Fowler. He employed Harold Branson to look after his grounds and most of his affairs. Branson was Fowler’s right-hand man and errand boy, the one who did the shopping and schlepping for his boss. Like Fowler, Branson was an enigma—quiet, private and anti-social. What seemed so odd about the arrangement was Branson’s age—he was over seventy years old. Their relationship reminded him of Bruce Wayne and his elderly butler, Alfred. This thought made the chief chuckle, picturing Fowler dressed up like Batman and leading a double life as a criminal instead of a crime fighter.
Branson, like Fowler, was a Wayneston native who had never married and lived alone. There had been talk that he and Fowler were lovers, but this had never been substantiated. And although the chief couldn’t care less either way, he did wonder about the range and scope of their rather unusual relationship.
The chief let out a long sigh. He called the front desk and told Maynard to have Jeff Barnes meet him out in the parking lot in ten minutes. It was time to go see what Martin Fowler was up to.
When they reached the gated entrance to Fowler’s property, the chief got out of the patrol car and walked over to the video camera. He stood there for a few minutes to see if Fowler would open the gate. He wanted to avoid calling him if possible, but after a few minutes it was apparent that nobody was monitoring the gate. He took out his cell phone, punched in the number he had scrawled on a small notepad and waited for an answer. Fowler had an unlisted number but his number was on file in the city records.
“Hello,” Fowler said.
“Martin? It’s Chief Myers. You busy right now?”
“Hello, Chief. No, not really. Why do you ask?”
“Somebody reported seeing a prowler in the area last night. While we were checking it out, I spotted some footprints near the south side of your property line that don’t seem to go anywhere. Almost looks like the guy may have jumped your fence somehow—not the first time that’s happened if you recall a few years ago. Anyway, I wonder if you’d mind letting me in so I can take a look around.”
“Oh sure, no problem. When are you coming?”
“Actually we’re outside your gate right now.”
“I see. Well, sure—I’ll open the gate for you as soon as I can get down to the switch.”
“Great, thanks.”
The chief disconnected and got back into the car.
“Well, it looks like we’re in. He sure doesn’t seem very suspicious to me, Chief,” Barnes said.
“No, he’s as cool as a cucumber. Looks like this is gonna be a red herring, just as I thought.”
“I’m surprised he bought your story, actually. Why in the hell would a prowler risk getting fried jumping over that fence?”
“If a fellow is desperate enough, he will do anything. These crack heads don’t give a shit what stands in their way if they’re needin’ a fix. And it’s not like Fowler doesn’t have plenty of potential money for crack up there.”
“I reckon you’re right. But how the hell could he climb over that fence and avoid the juice getting him?”
“A ten foot long two by six could be positioned over the top and used like a ladder—that’s one way. A guy would have to be damn careful though.”
“But wouldn’t the board still be there if a prowler was on Fowler’s land?”
“Of course. But Fowler doesn’t have to know that,” the chief smiled.
Suddenly there was a loud whining sound as the gates swung open. Barnes put the cruiser in gear and entered Fowler’s property.
“Now remember, Jeff. Not a word of this to anybody. I picked you because you know how to keep your mouth shut.”
“Don’t worry, chief. My lips are sealed.”
The chief gazed out the passenger side window as they made their way up Fowler’s steep winding driveway. He thought back to the last time he’d been up at the Fowler place and recalled it had been nearly ten years ago. Old man Fowler had suffered a stroke and Beatrice had called 911. He had accompanied the emergency vehicle as a formality since the fire chief had been on vacation at the time.
A few minutes later, the Fowler mansion came into view as they rounded the last curve of the driveway. Barnes drove up to the front of the place and parked. The chief saw Martin Fowler come out of the door to greet them. He was tall and thin with balding hair that along with his wire rimmed glasses made him look older than a man in his mid-thirties. He wore khaki Dockers, a black polo shirt and a pair of new sneakers.
“Good to see you, Chief,” he said.
“Back at you, Martin.” The chief and Barnes got out of the car. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but I want to make sure this guy isn’t lurking around somewhere up here.”
“Who spotted him in the first place?” Fowler asked.
“Old man Jenkins. Said the guy was hanging around his garage like he was fixing to steal something out of it. When he turned on the outdoor floodlights, the guy ran like a bat out of hell up the road in this direction.”
“Hmm. Well, I doubt he’s around here—I just got back from my morning jog and covered most of the grounds. Didn’t run into any prowlers along the way.”
His flippant attitude rubbed the chief the wrong way. “Well, it’s not like he would he would exactly make himself visible to you, Martin, would he? At any rate, we’ll just take a quick look around and then be on our way if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest, Chief.” Fowler said. “I’ll be insi
de if you need me.”
“Thanks, Martin. We won’t be long.”
Fowler headed back into the house. Chief Myers gestured for Barnes to follow him over to the guesthouse to the south of the mansion. Once they were out of earshot, Barnes said, “Think he’s suspicious, Chief? I mean, what he said about the prowler made me think that he’s not buying any of this.”
“I agree. But the guy’s so weird that it’s hard to get a read on him. Always got that standoffish attitude just like the rest of the Fowlers. Must be in the gene pool.”
“What about the house? We going inside?”
“Not sure, yet. Let’s poke around out here a little and then take it from there.”
They stopped in back of the guesthouse on the way to one of three paths that fanned out into the wooded perimeter of Fowler’s property. The chief peeked inside one of the windows and held his ear up to it, listening for any sounds. Satisfied that the house was unoccupied, they continued along the path.
Ten minutes later, the chief and Barnes returned to Fowler’s house and rang the bell. A moment later, he came to the door and opened it.
“Find anything, Chief?”
“Nope, looks like all clear. Mind if we take a look inside?”
It was obvious that Fowler had been half-expecting this, even though the request was absurd.
“You surely don’t think a prowler would be in my house!”
The chief’s expression became stern. “I’m going to level with you, Martin. There is somebody who thinks you may be hiding something in your house and even though I think the man is wrong, I promised him I’d check it out. Now you can either let me come inside and take a look around or I can go back into town and get a search warrant. It’s up to you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Chief. I have nothing to hide. But it would be nice to know what I am supposedly hiding.”
“Young girls abducted from Europe,” the chief replied matter-of-factly.
Fowler laughed heartily. “You’re kidding me, right? Now what in the world would I be doing with girls abducted from Eastern Europe, Chief?”
“I didn’t say Eastern Europe, Martin,” the chief said, his eyes narrowed.
“Well, that’s where they usually come from, isn’t it? You read about that sort of thing all the time—people being scammed into coming to this country to have a better life— but I can assure you that I am not guilty of these charges. And frankly, I’m a little put off that you would think me capable of it, Chief.”
“Nothing personal, Martin. I’m just doing my job. Why don’t you just show me around the place and then we’ll quit bothering you with this.”
“Very well. But who may I ask has made this absurd accusation?”
“That’s not something I can answer, Martin. The source is reputable, though, or I would never have given this a second thought. All you need to do is prove that he’s barking up the wrong tree and this whole thing will be over.”
“I understand. Well, this is the foyer and up ahead to the right is the library.”
Barnes and the chief followed Fowler to the library. Along the walls were a few large oil paintings framed in hand carved frames. The chief knew very little about art, but enough to know that the paintings looked old, authentic and valuable. When they entered the library with its high vaulted ceilings, Myers noted no less than a dozen more paintings adorning those areas where there weren’t any built-in bookshelves.
“This is more like an art gallery than a library, Martin. Are these paintings originals or reproductions?”
Martin Fowler cast the chief an incredulous look that bordered on contempt. “Why they are most certainly the originals! The mere thought of exhibiting copies would be a travesty, Chief. Clearly, you are not much of an art aficionado or you would know better than to even suggest such a thing to a collector!”
“Sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess it’s just kind of hard to believe that there are so many valuable paintings in this place. I mean, you should have a public exhibit or whatever you call it. So maybe the folks in town could see all of this fine art.”
“Not interested. In fact, you men are among a select few who have seen my art collection. That’s the way I would like it to remain, as well. So I’d appreciate it if you would keep quiet about this. The last thing I want is for the wrong people to get wind of my collection and try to steal it.”
“Hmm, I see what you mean. Well, don’t worry about that. We won’t tell a soul, right Barnes?”
“Right, Chief.”
They walked along the perimeter of the library then continued touring the first floor. As they entered another spacious room that Fowler used as his formal gallery, the chief noticed that there were some paintings that hadn’t been hung. They were standing up against the walls, spaced out randomly throughout the room.
“Looks like you still have some work to do in here, Chief Myers commented.
“Yes, it’s actually a work in progress. I’ve been rearranging my artwork from around the house, trying to decide exactly what pieces should be put in here. It’s an arduous process, actually. And something that can literally take weeks to accomplish satisfactorily.”
The chief strode along the paintings as he made his way to the far end of the room. When he reached the first of two closed doors, he gestured toward it.
“What’s in here?”
“One of the bathrooms. Why do you ask?”
“Mind if I take a peak inside?”
“Of course not. Here, I’ll open the door for you.”
Fowler opened the door and turned on the lights. The bathroom was enormous by any standard and looked like it belonged in a master suite.
“Whew, that’s a big bathroom—how come it’s so huge?”
“You’re going to see that everything in the house is big, chief. When my grandfather built this place, he wanted everything to be as functional as it is elegant. No expense was spared. He imported all of the marble for the floors from Italy, the woodwork was handcrafted by European artisans and so on.”
“I see. I must say it’s a shame that such a wonderful place is so, uh, isolated from the rest of the town.”
“It’s no secret that my family has always been rather private, Chief. And with that sort of reputation, the rumors of course are always circulating. But we Fowlers have always believed that everyone is entitled to live as they see fit, as long as they are not doing something wrong.”
“And I can appreciate that, Martin. What about this door?”
“Storage. Here, look for yourself,” Fowler replied.
He opened the door and inside there were several shelves, mostly bare except for a few tools and framing supplies.
The chief nodded. They finished the tour of the ground floor and then ascended the stairway to the second floor. The chief was shown the master bedroom, Fowler’s study, the extra bedrooms, the attic and all of the closets. Finally, they went up to the terrace on the roof. The terrace and the view were both very impressive.
“You have a basement, I assume,” the chief said.
“Yes, of course. Follow me.”
The basement was split up into a laundry room, a game room and an exercise room. After a quick inspection, the chief was satisfied that the house was clean. If Martin Fowler was harboring a half dozen young girls, it wasn’t anywhere in this mansion.
“If you don’t mind, could we take a look in your guest house?”
Fowler was visibly annoyed by the request but nodded. “Of course. Whatever you say, Chief.”
Upon Chief Myers’ suggestion, they went by way of the courtyard to the spare house. The courtyard was absolutely breathtaking in its Neo-Renaissance design. Among a rich variety of lush plants that either lined or hung from the stone walls were a large central fountain, several pedestal fountains and a pair of Italian statues. The subtle sounds of the gently running water were mesmerizing.
“This is wonderful, Martin,” the chief said.
“
Thank you. This is my favorite place on earth,” he declared. “So quiet and tranquil.”
They traversed the courtyard and passed through an arched entry that led into a garden. They walked along a stone path that eventually led to the one-story guesthouse. Like the Fowler mansion, it was also built of stone and had a tall gabled roof. Fowler took out a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one and unlocked the thick wooden door.
“After you, gentleman,” he said, holding the door open.
Once inside, the chief let out a gasp. “This looks much bigger inside than I expected. But where are the beds and the kitchen? This looks more like a studio than a guest house, Martin.”
“I converted this into my studio, Chief, not long after the folks passed. As you can see, there’s a lot of natural light coming in through the windows. Perfect for painting.”
“I see.”
Most of the interior of the former guesthouse had been gutted, leaving only the hardwood floors and several thick wooden support beams that jutted up to the top of the high ceiling. Near the center of the floor was a spiral stairway that wound its way up to an area of the ceiling that had been cut out, exposing the attic.
“Mind if I take a look up there?”
“Be my guest, Chief,” Fowler replied.
Chief Myers climbed up to the top of the staircase and stuck his head into the opening. He took out his flashlight and shone it around the attic. Like the space below, the attic was barren with nothing more than a couple of pieces of furniture and some old canvases leaning against the wall.
He came back down and walked over to an easel standing near one of the tall windows.
“What’s this going to be?’ he asked, seeing nothing on the canvas but several random pencil lines that looked more like doodling than any kind of sketch.
“Not sure yet. Just started the piece.”
“Oh, I see.”
The chief walked toward the rear of the space and observed a modest bathroom and a closet stuffed with artist supplies. To the right of the closet was a small hallway leading to a sparsely furnished kitchen and a utility room. After a quick look around, the chief re-entered the studio area and walked back over to where Fowler and Barnes were standing by the door.
“Is there a basement?”
“No, just a two-foot crawlspace. You want to see it?”
“Naw, not necessary,” Myers replied. “Well Martin, it looks like this information was incorrect. I apologize for the inconvenience and hope you know that I am only doing my job.”
“No problem, Chief.”
“Let’s go back to headquarters, Jeff,” the chief said. “We’ve taken up enough of this man’s time.”
When they arrived back at his car, the chief proffered his hand to Martin Fowler. “Sure sorry about all of this, Martin. Barnes here can vouch for the fact that I was anything but thrilled at the prospect of coming up here to investigate this allegation. I’ve always had the deepest respect for your family and I can only hope you will accept my heartfelt apology for this fiasco.”
Fowler smiled broadly. “No harm done, Chief. As you said, you are only doing your job. But now that you’ve toured my home, I must ask again ask that you don’t tell folks about my art collection. I truly am concerned that this could put my property at risk of theft. Will you promise me that, Chief?”
“Certainly, Martin. Nothing will be said about this investigation, period, in fact. Barnes and myself are the only ones in the department that are aware of any of this and I plan on keeping it that way. Fair enough?”
“Yes, Chief. That sounds fair enough.”
“Well then, we’ll be on our way. Have a wonderful day, Martin. And thank you for your cooperation and hospitality.”
“My pleasure, Chief.”
Once they had pulled away, Barnes said, “That was sure a waste of time.”
“No shit. I have to admit that Martin took it all pretty darn well, all things considered. At first, I was a little leery of the guy—that sort of condescending attitude and all. But it didn’t take too awful long to realize that there were no girls anywhere on his property or any signs of any girls having ever been there. Swansea is basically full of crap.”
Barnes chuckled. “Why do I have a feeling that he’s gonna think we missed something, or that we didn’t really search Fowler’s home?”
“I’ve already prepared myself for that and I’m going to tell him that I don’t give a flying fuck if he believes me or not. Fowler is clean and he might just as well pack up and leave town now.”
“Wonder how in the hell Swansea ever got this false information about Fowler. If nothing else, the guy sure was certain of himself.”
“Who knows and who cares? I just want all of this to be over.”
“I hear ya, Chief,” Barnes said.