by Barbara Ross
“The art is amazing,” I said.
He grunted in response and kept walking.
“My family has a home from the same era,” I said, trying to find a neutral topic. “My mom believes they were designed by the same architect, Henry Gilbert.” I hadn’t been able to see a resemblance from the outside, but inside, Herrickson House felt strangely familiar.
“Umph.” He looked me over again. He hadn’t considered I might own a mansion. Of course, I didn’t. My mother did, and it was abandoned and partially destroyed, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“My family is having our home restored. Our architect said she’d love to come over to check Herrickson House out.”
He grunted something noncommittal that sounded like, “We’ll see.”
We kept walking through rooms full of Greek and Roman sculpture, antiques, and collections in glass cases—butterflies, coins, and stamps. The size and breadth of it was astonishing. The stuff had to be worth millions. I knew Lou was rich, of course, but I hadn’t realized she was rich-rich.
As we entered the next room, a breakfast room with breathtaking views of the Atlantic, an oil painting dancing with bright colors caught my eye. “Is that one of your aunt’s?” I pointed.
“One of ’em. There are, like, fifty in her studio. I’m not sure what I’ll do with ’em. Probably have to burn them.”
My heart sank. “Lou was quite well known around here. Her paintings are in a lot of homes. I’m sure you could sell them. Or donate them to a charity that would auction them.”
He stopped abruptly. It was the first time during the visit I’d disagreed with him, and like back on the pier when I told him he’d have to move his Porsche, he didn’t take it well. “Why did you say you were here?”
It was do or die time. “I didn’t. I came today because I want to talk to you about the beach and the access road.”
I had his attention, but not in a good way. “That subject is closed.”
“Is it? Because as I’m sure you know the town has filed for an injunction. If you understood how important the beach is to the clammers, the tourists, and the locals, who like to swim and sun at the end of a long day, too.”
He pushed a hand through his abundant brown hair. “I have no objection to them doing any of those things. Just not on my property.”
“But your aunt always—”
“Great-aunt-in-law,” he corrected. “Lou was my grandmother’s brother’s wife, whom he married late in life. They had no children. Herrickson House belongs to the Herricksons, of which my grandmother was one. They’ll be no more tromping around on the property by strangers.”
“We weren’t strangers to your aunt.”
“You’re strangers to me, and based on this encounter and others of its ilk, my intention is to keep it that way. I may have to live here, but I don’t have to mix.”
I’d been trying to help and I’d made things worse. Ida Fischer was right. He was odious. “What about those poor people who paid to spend the night in the keeper’s cottage at Herrickson Point Light?” I said. “They gave your aunt a deposit. They have a right to be here.”
“I offered to refund their money, in cash. That they refused is no concern of mine. I trust you can see yourself out.”
* * *
Out on the front porch, I checked my phone. Five minutes after eleven. I’d have to hustle to drive back to town and make it to the Jacquie II. I followed the path Ida Fischer had taken to the upper gate. It clicked open and I stepped through it onto the grassy strip that ran along Rosehill Road.
“Can you leave that open?”
The voice, a husky smoker’s rasp, came from across the lane. The deeply tanned woman I’d seen at Lou’s memorial and again in the crowd at the blocked parking lot came out through a gate on the other side of the road.
I hesitated, my hand on the Herricksons’ gate. Should I let her in? While I dithered, she hurried across the lane and took the gate from me, rendering the decision unnecessary on my part.
“Do you want to speak to Mr. Frick?” I asked.
“Is he there?”
“Yes. But he’s not open to discussing beach access if that’s what you’re hoping.” She looked crestfallen. “The town is bringing an injunction to force him to take the gate down,” I told her.
Up close, she showed every bit of her age, which I guessed to be around seventy. The sun had made her skin leathery, a look you saw in Maine mostly on fishermen and farmers. Her hair was long and white with a streak of blonde in it, tied in a ponytail she’d looped through the back of a pink baseball hat. She wore an open lace cover-up over a relatively small bathing suit, given her age. Her skin glowed bright white at the suit’s edges.
“I’d hoped he was making a point, asserting his right, for legal reasons or whatever, and would open it back up after twenty-four hours,” she said.
“No such luck. I’m Julia Snowden, by the way.”
“I remember you from the boat. Vera French.”
“Were you close to Lou?”
She hesitated. “No.” She drew the word out, as if she was making up her mind how to characterize their relationship. “I’ve been her neighbor for more than twenty years. I thought it was the right thing to go to her memorial.”
Rosehill Road was lined on the other side with the same type of high boxwood hedge that bordered the Herrickson estate. Peeking above the hedge was a gray-shingled dormer and the worn roof of a cottage smaller than Herrickson House, but of the same era. Modest as the cottage appeared to be, its property ran all the way down to the ocean. It would have its own magnificent views.
In the tall hedge was a wooden pedestrian gate not unlike the Herricksons’, though Vera’s was painted bright green. It had rosebushes trained over its trellis, too, and a distinctive crescent shape cut into the top of its door.
“I’m sure it was the right thing,” I assured her. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Vera stepped onto the Herrickson property. “Even if he won’t be reasonable about the beach, I’d still like to meet Bartholomew Frick. And I’ve never been inside the house.” She waved, then bent to the ground and picked up a good-sized gray rock, positioning it to prop the gate open. “In case I need to escape in a hurry.” Her deep voice made her laugh sound like a seal’s bark. She waved good-bye and disappeared down the path.
I started toward the Caprice. If I didn’t get a move on, I was going to miss my boat. As I did, I glanced to where Rosehill Road dead-ended a few yards beyond the turnoff to the beach access road. A dark red pickup was parked at the farthest point, practically on the rocks. Behind it was an empty boat trailer with a Maine plate.
Had it been there before? I was positive it hadn’t. Despite the time, I walked down to check it out.
When I got closer I could see that as I’d suspected, it was Will Orsolini’s truck. So he did have a boat. Maybe he was taking it over to the beach to clam, which would be legal if I understood the 1640 Ordinance. I went back to the chain link gate and looked for him on the beach and in the water, but the cove was empty all the way to the lighthouse.
I got in my car, started her up, and pulled onto Rosehill Road. As I crested the top of the hill parallel with Herrickson House, a giant beige RV whizzed by me, headed toward the beach.
Glen and Anne Barnard, unless I missed my guess, and they sure were in a heck of hurry. If they were going to plead their case with Bart Frick to let them stay at the keeper’s cottage, it was a journey that would end in disappointment.
CHAPTER 6
The afternoon flew, as it always did during our busiest times. The day was beautiful, warm with a light breeze, the sky robin’s egg blue, and the Atlantic a deep navy. By the time the lunch guests, sun-drunk and full-bellied, boarded the Jacquie II, I was hungry. Livvie and her kitchen crew, as always anticipating our needs, put a dozen quiches out on the bar, adding an enormous green salad and slices of watermelon.
Eager to get off my fee
t, I sat at one of the long tables, directly across from Emmy Bailey. Before she’d come to work for us, she’d waitressed at Crowley’s in town, and struggled with childcare that had overwhelmed her ancient grandmother. Working at the clambake had solved multiple problems. Emmy brought ten-year-old Vanessa and ten-month-old Luther to the island with her, which provided my niece Page, who was at the age where living on an island all summer might seem less like an adventure and more like a sentence, with a companion. We’d hired a pair of teenaged girls to look after them, and most especially the babies, Luther and Jack. Both boys were getting more mobile. Luther was pulling himself up and cruising along the picnic benches, and Jack had perfected the art of rolling over, and over, and over.
The conversation flowed around us, most of it the usual topics, stories of family activities, comments about how lucky we’d been with the weather this season, and so on. A discussion about the gate barring access to Sea Glass Beach was inevitable. For a group so diverse in age, income, education, and political convictions, our opinions were far more unified on this, than on any other subject. Everyone agreed that the beach should be accessible to all, and that Bart Frick was an enormous jerk.
Slowly people cleared their plates and went off to prepare for our dinner guests. I started to rise off the picnic bench when Emmy said, “Julia, do you have a minute?”
I did. More or less a minute. I sat back down.
“Do you know why Chris keeps asking me about Vanessa’s father?”
I did, sort of. He believed his brother in prison was Vanessa’s father. I wasn’t sure how much to say to Emmy. It wasn’t my story to tell. And it sounded a little crazy.
“Why does he even care?” she asked when I didn’t respond. “I know Nessie has the green eyes, like he does, but I’ve told him a thousand times, it isn’t him, if that’s what he’s worried about. I remember her dad. It’s just that, it was a one-time thing, and I never found him again. Not that I was eager to. I didn’t think he was good dad material.”
She hesitated. I still hadn’t said anything, which I would have found annoying if I was on the other side of the conversation.
“Can you ask him to stop? It’s not something I’m eager to talk about. I definitely don’t want Vanessa hearing about it. And, it’s a little creepy, to tell you the truth.”
She stopped talking then, and I couldn’t blame her. When you’ve called someone’s boyfriend a creep, what more is there to say? I smiled, to let her know I wasn’t mad, and then we were both rescued by the loud whistle of the Jacquie II as she pulled up to our dock with our dinner guests aboard.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said in the most neutral tone I could manage.
I don’t think anyone noticed, but I was “off” for the rest of the night. I knew my boyfriend wasn’t creepy. But the truth was, I knew only slightly more than Emmy did. Chris was convinced his incarcerated brother was Emmy’s father. But why did he care so much about proving it? Why did he care at all?
There had to be more to it. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation we were going to have that night.
CHAPTER 7
But that conversation would have to wait. When our dinner guests lumbered off the Jacquie II, a state trooper stood on the pier. Waiting for me. This can’t be good.
“Ms. Snowden? Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn would like to speak to you at the police station.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything, I swear. Tell them I’ve been minding my own business. Seriously.” I had been to see Bart Frick that morning about opening the beach, but that was a local matter. Why would the state police care? Why would anyone care about me visiting that awful man?
“Ms. Snowden, I’d rather not discuss this with you here. Let’s walk.” The pier was crowded, with our dinner guests and many others strolling back from restaurants, headed to bars, out for ice cream. People walked by, staring, stopping their conversations so they could overhear ours.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Will Orsolini and his family at Small’s Ice Cream Shop on the corner where the road met the pier. It was almost ten o’clock. I would have thought it was late to have their little ones out.
Will’s wife Nikki had been in the same high school class as Livvie. She was tall and pleasantly round with long, dark hair that fell over her high forehead. Their children stair-stepped down in age—six, four, and the toddler in the stroller, sticky-faced with chocolate ice cream.
Will saw me and started to wave, but then spotted the state police officer beside me. Will lowered his hand, his brows creased, lips tight with concern. I gave a little wave, meant to signal, “Everything’s cool,” and kept walking.
I spotted a state police cruiser about thirty feet ahead, parked on the street at the top of the pier. “I’m not going in that.” I pointed to it. “The police station’s a five-minute walk.”
“I’ll let Lieutenant Binder know you’re on your way.”
“Thank you.” I walked with him until we got to his cruiser. Then I split off and continued up Main Street, cut across the library lawn and then its parking lot, and arrived at Busman’s Harbor’s ugly, brick town-hall-firehouse-police-station complex.
Inside, the place buzzed with activity, so different from when I’d visited Jamie there that morning. The civilian receptionist wasn’t at her desk, her shift would have ended hours earlier. Instead, the same state trooper I’d left moments before sat in her chair. “I’ll tell them you’re here.”
I nodded.
He disappeared into the multi-purpose room the Major Crimes Unit used when they were in town. He was only gone a few seconds. “They will see you now,” he said when he returned.
Lieutenant Binder rose from behind the folding table he used as a desk. “Hello, Julia.”
Sergeant Flynn stood by the opposite wall in the large room. He nodded an acknowledgment. One of the last times we’d seen one another, he’d told me he was in love with my friend Genevieve and had asked her to marry him. It was an unusual confidence. He’d barely tolerated my “help” with several of their cases up to that point. In turn, I’d told him about my love for Chris, and how it was tempered by a sense there were things about him I still didn’t know. Since Genevieve had declined Flynn’s proposal in order to work as a private chef on a yacht, I wondered if he felt awkward after our personal disclosures in the dark of night as we’d waited for a killer.
If Lieutenant Binder knew or sensed any of this, he ignored it. He gestured for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs in front of his table, chairs I knew from experience were impossible to get comfortable in. Flynn crossed the room and sat in the other.
“Why am I here?” I asked. “I swear, I haven’t done a thing.”
Binder allowed his mouth to curve into a smile under his ski-slope nose. Flynn remained stone-faced as usual. Binder glanced at his computer screen.
“We understand from Ms. Ida Fischer that you visited Bartholomew Frick this morning at his residence, Herrickson House.”
“I did,” I admitted.
“What time was that?” Binder continued.
“I got there around ten thirty. What is this about?”
Binder leaned back in his chair, the very picture of relaxed, casual conversation. “We’ll get to that. How long were you with Mr. Frick?”
“About half an hour. Seriously, you two are freaking me out. Has something happened?”
Binder leaned forward, placing both elbows and forearms on his desk. “Mr. Frick is deceased.”
I’d expected it was something serious. The Major Crimes Unit didn’t come to town for trivial reasons. They didn’t summon you to the police station at ten o’clock at night for a friendly chat. I had even suspected what that serious thing was, especially when the Lieutenant had asked me about Frick. But Binder’s statement hit me hard. I hadn’t known Frick well, and what I had known, I hadn’t liked. But I had been with him that morning, talking about his great-aunt’s home and her artwork. He hadn’t been a nice man,
but he had been a living, breathing one.
“Why did you visit Mr. Frick?” Binder asked.
I cleared my throat, which was suddenly tight. “What happened to him? What time did it happen?”
There was a long silence when none of us said anything. Then Flynn surprised me by saying, “Mr. Frick’s death was unexpected and certainly caused by another person. We’d rather not go into details yet, but it is entirely possible you were the last person to see him alive aside from his killer.”
A shiver ran down my spine and I hugged myself tighter.
“Why did you visit Mr. Frick?” Binder asked again, more gently this time.
“If you’ve been in town long enough to talk to Mrs. Fischer, you know Bart Frick put a gate across the road and is denying access to the beach and lighthouse.”
Binder’s light brown brows rose toward his balding dome. “You went to Herrickson House to talk to Frick about the gate?”
“I did. There’d been a lot of yelling and a legal action filed. I thought maybe no one had ever explained to him in a calm, logical way how important the beach is to the town.”
Binder’s face crinkled into a smile. “And you thought you were the person to do this?”
“I thought maybe if no one had tried it—” It did sound kind of arrogant when I heard him say it.
“Why is this your business?” Binder pressed.
“The steamers we serve at the clambake come from the beach he blocked off. Some of them, anyway. And the beach and lighthouse are important to tourism, and tourism is important to my business.”
“How did it go?” Flynn asked.
“Not so well,” I admitted. “We had a nice talk about the house. He gave me a tour to look at all the artwork and collections.”
Flynn’s brow creased. “He invited you upstairs to the bedroom to see his etchings?”
“No, nothing like that. But it seemed we were having a nice conversation. Until I brought up the issue of the beach.”
“And then?” Binder scowled.
“And then he got furious and basically threw me out.”
