Thor McGraw and the Ice Man Murder

THOR MCGRAW AND THE ICE MAN MURDER

A Thor McGraw Mystery

Tom Drennan

Word Posse

Book cover design by The Scarlett Rugers Design Agency www.scarlettrugers.com.

Copyright © 2015 by Tom Drennan. All rights reserved. This book, or portions thereof, may not be reproduced by any means without permission of the author.

Smashwords Edition

Dedication

For Marje, the love of my life—you are my dear my darling one!

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my writer’s group: Laurell K. Hamilton, Martha Kneib, Rett MacPherson, Deborah Millitello, Sharon Shinn, and Mark Sumner for all the support, friendship, and patience shown over all the good years together. Thanks to my daughter, Mandy Schoen Reiter, for all the love and advice and kind words and editing—love you!

From Word Posse

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The Water Girl, Deborah Millitello

Fortune’s Daughter, Marella Sands

Thor McGraw and the Ice Man Murder, Tom Drennan

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CHAPTER ONE

My life as a detective began on April Fool’s Day. After all, what more appropriate day would there be to be chased by dogs, take an unexpected joy-ride in a police car, get my name in the papers and on television, and meet Mrs. Plum—a woman to be avoided? Of course, I can’t begrudge the latter too much. If I’d never met Mrs. Plum I would never have become Thor McGraw, the Investiga-TOR, but I get ahead of myself. Back to April Fool’s Day.

I guess it started when I sat down at the breakfast table with my daughter, Sabrina, to eat a bowl of over-sugared Wheaties. Sabrina wore her blue-and-white plaid school jumper. I wore a pair of khaki pants and a sky-blue shirt. To match your eyes, Molly, my wife, used to say when I wore the shirt. I grinned ruefully at the thought of Molly.

I wonder if the paper has come yet? I said.

Oh! I’ll check! Sabrina shouted and ran to the door as though she was in a race for her life. She was still at that age where her energy was boundless and she looked for reasons to spend it. Sabrina—I usually call her Bree—was six years old with dark brown hair, like mine, but cut in a pageboy fashion. She was beautiful, but, of course, I was prejudiced.

Bree, pick up the mail on the way back in, okay? I said.

Sure, Daddy, Bree said.

Put on a jacket and stay out of the street.

Magic, my black Lab, looked once at Bree, perhaps contemplating if he should run after her. He looked back at me. I shrugged. Magic hrmphed and settled back to his dog dreams.

Sabrina dashed into the yard and returned seconds later with a plastic-sleeved newspaper under her arm. She closed the door and gathered up two letters from the thick carpeting under the mail slot. I grinned as I watched my daughter staring at the letters in her hand. She was only starting to read so unless the words C-A-T, D-O-G, or L-O-O-K appeared on the envelopes (in capital letters, mind you) she hadn’t a clue. They might as well have been written in Greek. She came back through the living room/dining room area and plopped the letters on the breakfast table.

Anything for me? she asked, staring at me, her big dark eyes glistening. The top letter was a bill from Macy’s. The second was an offer from a clothing outfitter, but it had a big moose on the front of the envelope.

Oh! I turned the second letter over in my hand and looked at it respectfully. This one is for you. Want to open it?

Bree’s eyes lit up. She grabbed the letter and ripped it open. I turned my attention back to the newspaper. Call me old school. I knew I could get the news online, but I love the feel of a good newspaper in the morning, something I can rifle through, walk around with and toss about.

The doorbell rang.

I’ll get it! Bree cried. She ran back to the door. Magic looked up again. I shook my head and smiled. So much energy. I stood up, paper in hand, and walked towards the door. When I was only a few feet away, Bree swung the door open and there, on the porch, stood Mrs. Charlotte Plum, one of the neighbors from the condominium complex near my house. I knew she was a widow and that she had moved into her condominium less than a month ago, but I hadn’t met her yet. A neighbor up the street had pointed her out once, told me a few things about her and described Mrs. Plum as a woman to be avoided at all costs.

She was in her early sixties, somewhat heavy, with large jowls that hung beneath her jaw. Her fair skin was splotchy in parts with freckles and liver spots. Her silver-blue hair was barely visible under the broad rim of a straw gardening hat. She had dowsed herself in a lilac-based perfume which I found overwhelming. I have allergies. Mrs. Plum held her head up very high, even when looking at Bree.

Ah, Mr. McGraw! she said when she saw me. Your daughter has taken my morning newspaper. I want it back.

I stepped out on the porch and brought Bree with me. It was an unseasonably mild day for April 1st in Boston. Mid-fifties—but, as always in Boston, there was a wind blowing. It blew the powerful scent of Mrs. Plum’s perfume right at me. I took a step backward to distance myself from the scent.

Bree, did you take the wrong paper? I asked.

No, she said. The paper was in our yard. She pointed to the lawn.

It’s my paper and I insist you give it to me now, Mrs. Plum said.

Mrs. Plum, I don’t think we’ve met, I said, trying to change the subject and set a friendly tone. I’m Thor McGraw and this is my daughter, Sabrina.

I know perfectly well who you are, she said. She waved her hand in a dismissive fashion. Your father was a detective of some kind. You moved back here to your parents’ home four years ago after they died in a car crash. You live here with your only daughter, Sabrina Claire McGraw, who attends kindergarten at St. Thomas More. You’re thirty-two years old. You started teaching computer something-or-other at Boston College and now you’re teaching gobbledygook.

It’s amazing what people can learn in the digital age—or when you have gossipy neighbors. She had it mostly right. Mostly because my parents did not really die in a car crash four years ago. Dad wasn’t just a detective of some kind. Rather, he was the preeminent detective of his generation, a fact that never failed to feed Dad’s indefatigable ego and ultimately landed him and Mom in a witness protection program when he was unwilling to back down when confronting the lengths his enemies would go to extract vengeance. Outside of a select few members of the U.S. Marshals Service, I was the only person who knew they were still alive and not even I knew where in the world they had been relocated to.

You have your Ph.D., but you have nothing noteworthy to offer, Mrs. Plum continued in a condescending tone. So your chances for tenure are slim. Mrs. Plum held her head particularly high. My late husband, Edgar, taught at Boston University, you know.

Oh, I didn’t know that… I sneezed before I could finish my sentence.

Daddy is allerdic, Bree said.

Allergic, I corrected her. Sabrina went to speech class every other Wednesday to correct her speech impediment. I made a mental note to go over her review words—her homework—with her later.

Edgar was the first teacher at Boston University with two Ph.D.s, Mrs. Plum continued. They called him the Double Doctor, you know.

I… I started to tell her I knew a couple professors with two or more Ph.D.s and would she know them, but then I sneezed again.

The Double Doctor could have taught anywhere, Mrs. Plum continued. Harvard. Princeton. Yale. Stanford. Oh, we considered California, but the insects are so large there.

I don’t think… I could not get the words out before I sneezed for a third time.

Oh, they’re huge out there.

I had to get away from her perfume. I felt like Superman confronting Kryptonite. I looked at my watch. Mrs. Plum, I’m running a little late.

The Double Doctor was never late. Thirty-six years and he was never late.

Bree, go find Mrs. Plum’s paper, I said, giving her a mild but urgent push towards the yard. I felt another sneeze coming on. Mrs. Plum reached out and pulled my paper out of my hands.

This is mine, she said. What your daughter finds is yours.

How do you know so much about me, Mrs. Plum? I asked, eyeing my newspaper in her hands and trying to figure out how to tactfully take it back.

She uses a telegope, Bree said from the front yard.

Well, I never, Mrs. Plum said, frowning at Bree. I do not own a telescope. I have binoculars which I use for bird-watching. From warbler to sparrow to purple martin to Harris hawk to the majestic peregrine falcon. I see them all.

I found it! Bree cried. She returned to the porch with a mud-soaked paper. It was in Mrs. Plum’s garden but it’s all wet. Sabrina handed it to me. I kept it at arm’s length. I did not want the mud on my shirt.

Oh my! Mrs. Plum said. How unfortunate that the paper man would throw your paper in my garden. I turned the sprinkler on earlier. Your paper appears to have gotten wet. A valuable lesson you should learn. Next time you should retrieve your paper sooner.

If that paper was in my front yard, I said, pointing to the paper in Mrs. Plum’s hands, and the one I’m holding was in your garden, why wouldn’t the one in the garden be your paper and the one in my yard be mine?

Well, a week ago that wet, muddy thing might have been mine and the clean one yours, Mrs. Plum said, but last week I specifically told the paper man never to toss my paper in my garden, because it gets wet. Therefore, he would not have put my paper in the garden, and since it got wet, I think we must conclude the clean paper is mine and the muddy one is yours.

I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it abruptly. I think she honestly thought what she said made sense.

I usually only read the sports section, I said, desperate to salvage something of this incident, yet wanting her to leave. Perhaps I could have the sports page and you take the rest.

You want to borrow part of my paper? Mrs. Plum said.

Yes.

As a favor to you? she asked.

Yes, I said in total and abject defeat. The woman had beaten me into mindless submission. I’d do anything to get her and her perfume and her paper off my porch.

Very well, Mrs. Plum said, but you owe me one.

I ground my teeth together but still managed to smile. Mrs. Plum pulled the paper from the plastic sleeve and shuffled through the pages until she found the sports page. She pulled it out and passed it to me.

Thanks, I said.

You owe me a favor, Mr. McGraw, she said. Remember that. The Double Doctor always told me not to let people owe favors for too long. It breeds ill will. But never fear, I’ll think of something you can do to pay me back.

Oh, Daddy, look at the kitty! Bree cried. Bree dropped to her knees and spread out her hands. I gasped. If there was one thing I was more allergic to than Mrs. Plum’s perfume, it was cats. I hate cats.

A Siamese cat with an off-white coat and brown paws walked up my porch stairs and curled around Mrs. Plum’s foot. Mrs. Plum seemed not to notice. I heard Magic howl from inside the house.

This is Cheops, my Siamese cat, Mrs. Plum said. He’s named for the great Oriental ruler.

Egyptian, I said quietly.

Whatever, she said, dismissing me again with a wave of her hand. You computer people have no imagination.

I started to object when Bree said, Could Cheops come visit?

No, Bree, I don’t think… I sneezed before I could finish my objection. My eyes watered and started to itch.

Hmmm, Mrs. Plum said. Yes, I think we might be able to arrange that, young lady. The Boston Bird Watchers Society is meeting downtown at the Copley tonight. I could drop Cheops off around six thirty and pick him up when I get back at midnight.

I don’t think… My airway was tightening up. I was having trouble getting my breath. I heard Magic’s body slam up against the door behind me. He growled.

Nonsense, Mrs. Plum said. It’s for the child. And that’s two favors you owe me, Mr. McGraw. Now I really must be going. Good day to you. Enjoy your paper. Ta-ta.

She walked off the porch and down the steps humming a nursery rhyme. Mary Had a Little Lamb, I think it was. Cheops followed his master. He darted in and out between her feet as they walked down the hill towards Mrs. Plum’s condominium. I wanted to call out to Mrs. Plum to be careful but I said nothing for fear she would return and I’d end up owing her three favors.

A woman to be avoided, I said, nodding, and muttered, how true. How true. I opened the door. I was careful to keep Magic at bay with my foot. If he were to get out, he would chase the cat. Thus, Magic posed the last threat of another dreaded encounter with Mrs. Plum and her cat. I made sure he did not escape.

Back in the house, I took a deep breath. Now that the cat and perfume were gone, my airway was clearing and the sneezing stopped.

The phone rang.

I’ll get it! Bree shouted. She ran through the house and up to the phone which sat in the power charger on a side table against the wall in the kitchen. McGraw redident, she said. Bree’s eyes lit up. Hi, Mommy, she said.

Molly.

I walked back through the entry foyer and the living room/dining room and into the breakfast area. It was a straight shot. I put the pristine sports page and the muddy log of a paper down on the clean oak breakfast table. The latter made a squishy sound that told me the paper was indeed soaked to the core. I grimaced when I realized what I had done. A paper towel made short work of the mud on the table and a kitchen towel under the drenched paper did the trick. I sloshed my soggy Wheaties around a couple times in the bowl. All of these mundane actions were, of course, meant to keep me busy and keep my mind off the phone.

I wiped my muddy hand on another napkin and then finally gave up and just waited patiently for my turn on the phone. Molly McGraw was the love of my life. She was always worth waiting for. Red hair. Long legs. Freckles. Pert nose and a thin wry smile. She was a walking caricature. Goofy. Mixed up. Impulsive.

I looked at the calendar on the wall. We’d been divorced for six months to the day now. She said she was suffocating, in a rut. She said she needed to live while she was young enough to enjoy life. Carpe diem. She’d used all the lines. In my heart, I still loved her as much as I did in our carefree undergraduate days at Boston College. And I knew… deep down… she still felt the same about me. She needed to remember, that’s all. I’d give it another two months and we’d be back together.

Daddy, Bree repeated. She was holding the phone out to me in one hand. She had her other hand notched onto her hip. She tapped the floor with her foot and gave me a look of impatience.

Do you mind? she asked—Bree’s sarcastic line of the month. Mommy wants to talk to you.

Oh, I said. Thanks, Bree. I took the phone. Hi, Moll! How are you doing?

Oh Thor, I’m so sorry, she said.

Sorry? I asked.

For the article, she said. The front page of the Globe? You mean you haven’t seen it?

Not yet. Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I reached over and grabbed the muddy stump of newsprint that lay on the other side of the table. I let the paper slide from its sleeve. It made a wet thump as it fell back to the towel. I flattened the paper with both hands. The lead story suggested foul play by the New York Rangers in the untimely poisoning of the Boston Bruins star right winger. Roxbury teachers were threatening to strike. A Framingham man had tied his dog to the Riverside T tracks.

Look at Philip’s article, Molly said.

Philip? Who was Philip?

I checked the bylines. I could only make out a few of the names. By Gail Malone. Compiled from News Services. By Fred Hansen. By Philip Dahli.

Got it, I said. It was the Bruins article. Philip Dahli. I don’t understand how Ranger bashing… I stopped mid-sentence. My name appeared between two huge mud smears in the fifth paragraph—on the front page. I strained to read the lines surrounding my name, but it was hopeless. I scraped at the mud. The paper shredded.

I’m so sorry, Thor, but Phil was looking for a different angle and I thought it might be…well, I don’t know what I was thinking.

Phil? What happened to Philip? I frowned. I didn’t like the sound of this.

Oh, tell me you’re not angry with me, Thor, Molly said.

Who’s Phil? I asked.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

Oh, he’s just a reporter I met at that bar down on Exeter where we used to…

You met him at a bar? I said. What were you doing at a bar?

Molly was quiet for a minute. I said nothing.

Thor, we’re divorced, she said at last.

Never, I thought.

Of course, I said. I know that.

Look, Thor, she said. Take a look at the article. I hope it doesn’t upset you. Actually, it’s sort of flattering. You’ll probably get a kick out of it.

Sure, I said.

Okay, she said. I don’t want to make Bree late for school. Say bye to her for me."

Okay, Moll, I said. Bye. Then she hung up.

I stared at the phone and then handed it to Bree. Hang this up for me, Sweetie, I said. She took the receiver, marched over to the charging stand, and hung it up.

Mommy talks loud on the phone, Bree said.

I gave Bree a long look. And? I asked.

Daddy, Bree said, if Mommy married Phil would she be Molly Dolly?

Mommy is NOT getting married, I said a bit too loudly. Bree jumped. Then I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. Yeah, I said, I guess she would be Molly Dahli, wouldn’t she?

Bedder’n Molly Lolly, she said. Or Molly Jolly.

Or Molly Molly, I said. We both laughed.

I looked back at what was left of the headline. What in the world did I have in common with a murdered hockey star? I’d have to pick up another paper on the way to BC. And Molly? Better give it three months before Molly and I got back together.

I checked my watch again. Eight thirty. Bree’s school started at eight forty. My first class was at nine. Molly and Mrs. Plum had made us late. So, I decided to drive. A daring decision. If you live in Boston, you know that you don’t drive if you