by Barbara Ross
I didn’t know where he’d gone. To the Dark Lady, probably. I was angry he’d run out on our conversation, though there was no question in my mind he’d left because of the topic, not because of me. But until he could face his feelings, how was I to know what they were? How could we truly be together?
The rain had slowed, but was still coming down, the sky and the water were different shades of grey. The giddy fun of a mid-season “snow day,” had disappeared. The weather reflected my sadness and confusion.
The information on the laptop told me ninety-five percent of those who might have inherited the disease chose not to be tested. There was no cure, no effective treatment. The end was the same. Testing lowered stress for both winners and losers, but it also upped the chances of suicide.
The article helped me understand Chris’s choice. But if he didn’t want to be tested, why then was he determined that Emmy should know, and eventually Vanessa? Why should she be faced with the same terrible knowledge, the same terrible choice?
I powered off the laptop and closed the lid. I was slightly more knowledgeable, but no wiser. I would have to wait for Chris for that.
I sat on the old couch for a few minutes more. I had no reason to move. No one needed me, no one wanted anything. So different from when I was at work. When I couldn’t sit any longer, I pulled my slicker off the peg by the staircase and headed outside.
CHAPTER 16
It was too windy for an umbrella, so I hadn’t grabbed one. The rain had slowed, but was still steady. I pulled the hood of my slicker up, put my head down, and made tracks for the town-hall-firehouse-police-station.
On the way up the walk to the police entrance, I ran straight into Duffy MacGillivray.
“Ooof! Julia, watch where you’re going.”
I backed up. “I’m so sorry Duffy, I was dodging the rain drops.”
Duffy was a lobsterman and a bit of a Busman’s Harbor character. Fortunately, in late middle age, the muscles he’d built up from hauling traps were well padded around his middle. He wasn’t hurt and neither was I.
He squinted at me, appraising. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Same place you just left, by the look of things.”
He acknowledged I was right by the tip of his head toward the double glass doors. “What’s your business with them?”
It was an intrusive question; though I wasn’t surprised he asked it. Duffy considered tact a waste of time.
“I need to speak to the detectives about Bartholomew Frick’s murder.” I figured my minor role in the murder was probably so well known around town that not answering his question would result in more rumors than answering it.
“Same,” he grunted. “Good luck.” I watched him lumber away. What could Duffy MacGillivray have to do with Bart Frick?
Inside, the door to the multi-purpose room was open about a foot. The receptionist inclined her head to indicate I should go in.
Binder and Flynn were alone, standing by a white board and talking in low tones. The moment he spotted me, Flynn flipped the board over, but not before I noticed a photo of Will Orsolini very near the center of the board, and one of Ida Fischer not far from it.
“What was Duffy MacGillivray doing here?” I asked.
Binder smiled. “Hello to you, too.”
I reached their folding table desk at the same time they did, but neither sat. Binder held his hand out, gesturing toward the guest chairs in front of it. “Sit. Did you come to ask questions or do you have information that might actually be useful to us?” They were both smiling. We were one happy group. I wanted to keep it that way.
“I have information and questions,” I assured them.
Binder removed his sports jacket and draped it across the back of his chair before he sat down. The storm outside had upped the humidity in the room. “In answer to your question, Mr. MacGillivray came in to provide Will Orsolini with an alibi. He says he saw Mr. Orsolini on the other side of Herrickson’s Point at the relevant time.”
That raised an interesting question. “What is the relevant time?”
“Between 11:05 AM and 11:34 AM,” Flynn answered.
“That’s precise.”
“You gave us the 11:05 time,” Binder reminded me.
“I was keeping track carefully that morning. I didn’t want to miss the Jacquie II. How did you get the later time?”
“The call saying there was a body at Herrickson House came into 911 at 11:17 AM. Your friend Officer Dawes was first on the scene at 11:34 AM. Frick was dead when Officer Dawes found him.”
“Who called 911?”
“Anonymous. From an extension inside the house.”
Inside the house? That was creepy. “A man or a woman?” I asked.
“Man.”
The hair on my arms stood up. “Do you think he was the killer? Because if he was, and he murdered Frick and called 911 twelve minutes after I left, that probably means—” I shuddered.
“He was already in the house when you were there,” Flynn finished. “Yes, we believe the killer was.”
I let that sink in. In the house with a killer. Herrickson House was enormous. So many places to hide. “What about Vera French? I told you she went onto the property as I left.”
“She told us she went to the front door, knocked a few times, rang the bell, didn’t get an answer and gave up. She claimed she was on and off the property in less than ten minutes.” Binder sounded skeptical about Vera French’s story, but then detectives were professional skeptics.
“So she was knocking on the door while the murder was going on? Where in the house was the body?”
“The body was in the breakfast room, one of the few places on the main floor not visible from the front porch,” Flynn answered.
“Why call 911? The caller has helped you pinpoint the time of the murder. If he hadn’t called, Frick might not have been found for days.”
Ida Fischer had quit. The locked upper gates and chain link fence across the beach access road should have discouraged visitors. Should have, except if the cops were right, at least three of us, me, Vera French, and the killer, had come calling that morning.
“Very good question,” Binder said. “We don’t know why he called. The department psychologist says it might suggest the killer cared for Mr. Frick and wanted his body to be found before too much time went by.”
“Cared for Mr. Frick? That doesn’t describe anyone in Busman’s Harbor.”
“Or anyone else we’ve been able to find,” Flynn added. “Not a popular guy.”
Binder wriggled in his chair. He was a patient man, not given to fidgeting. I could tell my time to ask questions was up. “You said you had something for us?” he prompted.
“Yes. I don’t know if it matters, but it’s been bugging me. When I got to Herrickson House on the morning of the murder, I met Ida Fischer at the door, like I told you. She left it open and I went inside looking for Frick. I found him in Lou’s study, examining an old letter from a pile of them on her roll top desk. When he saw me, he put the letter back in a hurry and slammed down the top of the desk. I had the feeling he didn’t want me to see what he was reading.”
When I finished speaking, they were silent. I had to admit, my information was underwhelming. “I thought you could at least maybe look at the letters,” I finished. Lame.
Binder put on his glasses and typed into his laptop. I wondered if he’d taken me seriously or if it was a charade for my benefit. “Thank you, Julia. If there’s nothing else—”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” The civilian receptionist stood in the doorway. “There’s some sort of trouble out at Herrickson Point. Officers Dawes and Howland are on the scene. The chief’s on his way. He thinks you two should go as well.”
Both men started for the door. “Do you have any more information?” Binder asked her.
“There’s a crowd at the gate, threatening to pull it down,” the receptionist told them. “It’s getting heated.”
&nbs
p; In seconds, I was the only one left in the empty room. Sirens wailed from the parking lot. I pulled my slicker around me and ran for my car.
* * *
I reached Mom’s garage and jumped into the Caprice. It was almost as wide as the doorframe, and I always had to ease her out slowly. Main Street was full of tourists practicing retail therapy as a way to soothe the rainy-vacation-day blues. I cursed as they meandered across the street, crossing without looking. As I edged my way through town, I also cursed the cops with their sirens and ability to make other vehicles get out of their way. They were probably already at Herrickson Point.
As I drove down Rosehill Road, I saw more than fifty people gathered at the turn onto the access road, even more than the day the gate had gone up. Cars and pickups littered both sides of the road. In the middle of it all, parked ten feet away from the gate, was the Barnard’s RV with the distinctive silhouette of the lighthouse on the side.
The rain had slowed, but the wind was still high. It wasn’t a good day for the beach.
I fought my way to the front of the crowd where Will stood nose-to-nose with Jamie, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Let us in. We’ve a right! Fishing, fowling, and navigation. This guy had no right to block us.”
Jamie kept his voice even, trying to ratchet down the tension. “We don’t know if he had the right or not. That’s why it’s gone to court.”
“And now he’s dead,” someone else shouted. “How long will we have to wait?”
Will spoke directly to Jamie who cupped his ear to hear in the wind. “You know this isn’t what Lou wanted.”
Jamie shook his head. “It’s not Lou’s decision anymore.”
A grumble spread through the crowd. I looked around. The clammers held their rakes high. There were some beach goers, too, who lofted closed umbrellas. Vera French was in the crowd. It was too chilly for bathing suits. She was in white capris and a bright blue windbreaker. The gusts whipped her long, white hair around her face.
When she turned her head toward Herrickson House I did the same. Six big dark wood rockers lined the front porch, moving in the wind, as if occupied by ghosts.
Vera French’s head swung back. She caught me staring and raised a hand in a half-hearted salute. Behind her, Glen Barnard stood on the top step of his RV, head and shoulders above the crowd.
All seven of Busman’s Harbor’s uniformed patrol officers were there, even Officer Larry, a retired cop From Away the BHPD hired every tourist season to help keep up with the paperwork. I’d never seen him outside of the station house. The buttons of his uniform shirt strained across his belly.
A siren blared on Rosehill Road. People moved aside and the chief’s car pulled up next to the Barnard’s RV. Chief Beaupre hefted himself out of the driver’s seat, looking, as always, annoyed. Beaupre’s mood hit bottom on Memorial Day and he wouldn’t smile again until Columbus Day. He had to deal with schedules, budgets, and the town selectmen, but other than that, his force was so small, he still had to go out on patrol. I wondered what part of our far-flung peninsula he’d been patrolling when he got the call about the mob at Sea Glass Beach.
Beaupre huddled with Jamie and the other officers. Then he motioned for Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn to join them. The crowd began to chant. “Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!” There was the brrr of a big engine revving. Glen Barnard was back behind the wheel of his RV, ready to roll, Anne at his side in the passenger seat.
“Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!” The clammers moved their rakes up and down with the rhythm of the chant.
Chief Beaupre nodded, and Jamie broke from the circle, fast walking through the crowd, back toward his patrol car parked on the road.
The chanting grew louder. Chief Beaupre faced the crowd and held up one hand, indicating he wanted to speak, but it was too late. The momentum of the crowd carried them forward, and people surged against the gate, beating it with the clam rakes. “Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!” Someone was going to get hurt. I wasn’t the only one worried. A look passed between Chief Beaupre and Lieutenant Binder.
Jamie sprinted back with a big pair of bolt cutters. “Let him through! Let him through!” someone at the back called out, and the crowd took up the chant. Jamie moved slowly forward and positioned himself beside the middle padlock of three on the gate. The crowd fell silent as he lifted the big cutters and snapped the lock. A cheer went up. “Hurray!” Jamie made quick work of the other two locks.
The crowd surged forward, pushing the gate out of the way. People poured into the parking lot, shouting and cheering. The Barnards’ RV came through and drove to the other end of the lot by the lighthouse.
Chief Beaupre stood on the boulder at the edge of the parking lot and yelled over the wind. “Listen up. This is temporary. Once we locate the heirs, they may choose to close the gate again. If that happens, it goes back to court. In the meantime, I expect you to treat this property as if it were your own, especially while that house is empty. Ya got me?”
The group quieted. A few people nodded or called out, “Yes.”
“Good. It’s a rotten day. Not good for swimming or sunbathing. And it’s high tide, so no clamming. Everybody go home. Unless something unexpected happens overnight, the gate will be open when you get here in the morning. Will, that okay with you?”
Will nodded, and a few of the other clammers chimed in. “Fine.” “Okay.” “No problem.”
The rain picked up, dousing us all, its timing perfect. People ran for their vehicles parked on Rosehill Road. Except for the Barnards, whose RV at the end of the parking lot didn’t move.
“I’ll talk to them.” Jamie pointed at the RV.
“Thanks,” Binder responded. “Make sure they understand the rules. Beach access only. Not the light. Not the keeper’s cottage. Not the mansion.”
“Will do,” Jamie said. “They’ll be disappointed.”
Binder was sympathetic. “At least they can get up close to it, even if they can’t get inside.”
* * *
The Caprice was so far up Rosehill Road, I was soaked by the time I reached it. The slicker protected my head and torso, but water wicked up my jeans. My canvas sneakers made squishing noises as I ran.
I was parked right in front of Vera French’s gate. I hadn’t seen her in the parking lot once the crowd got inside. She must have headed back to her house when Jamie cut the locks. I opened the gate to her cottage and followed the path toward the house.
The view from the lawn that rolled down to the boulders bordering the ocean was every bit as spectacular as I expected it to be. The architecture was so similar, I wondered if the cottage had once been an outbuilding of Herrickson House—a gardener’s cottage or the home of some other faithful family retainer.
A screened-in porch ran across half the front of the cottage. Across the other half was an open deck, which was where the front steps deposited me. A lounge chair with big black wheels and a bright orange striped cushion sat on the deck, next to a table where cigarette butts floated in an ashtray filled with water by the rain.
The screen door on the porch was locked. I knocked and called. “Mrs. French? Yoo-hoo! It’s Julia Snowden.”
She came through the open front door of the house right away. “Julia. Hello.” She opened the screen door and beckoned me in. “Please, call me Vera.”
I followed her into the cottage, slipping off the soaking tennis shoes before I entered. She’d taken off the windbreaker. Her white capris and the pale-yellow blouse she wore were expensive-looking, but the cottage was anything but. The rough floor felt gritty with sand and dirt under my bare feet. The furniture was spare, and shabby. Not shabby-chic but shabby-shabby. The settee sagged; the coffee table was covered in cigarette burns. Through the living room archway, in the kitchen, an old soapstone sink sat under the window. At some point in the distant past, someone had replaced its hand pump with a spigot and a pair of painted metal knobs. A big, single-door refrigerator wheezed in an alcove, but that was all
the updating that seemed to have been done. The paint in both rooms was flat gray and dingy. The whole place reeked of tobacco smoke.
A kettle sounded on the stove and blew off a plume of steam. “I was making tea to try to warm myself after being on the beach. Would you like some? And maybe a few cookies?”
Despite the surroundings, my stomach rumbled. I’d walked out on breakfast after Chris left and hadn’t stopped since. “Sure. Thanks.”
She brought the tea in two mugs and a plate of Vienna fingers to the chrome-legged, linoleum-topped kitchen table and we sat. She looked at me expectantly.
I took a sip of the tea, buying time. “Before the kerfuffle on the beach, I was at the police station,” I finally said. “They told me you didn’t get to see Bart Frick on the day he died.”
“I knocked and knocked and rang the bell. He didn’t come. Maybe if he had, I would have been there with him when he was attacked and could have helped somehow.”
“Or, you could have been killed.”
“Or that.” She wrapped her thin arms around her. “He was probably already dead when I got there. I heard the sirens from the first cop car before I was even back through my gate. I went upstairs to the bedroom and watched them all day—the cops, then the ambulance, more cops, the medical examiner.”
“Yet you didn’t come forward to say you’d been on the grounds.”
She put both hands on her mug, warming them. “No. I wasn’t anxious to tell them I’d been trespassing. You told them I was there.” She gave a little smile. “I don’t mind. It was the right thing to do.”
Binder had said a man had called 911 from a phone inside Herrickson House, but listening to Vera’s foghorn of a voice, I wondered. “You definitely didn’t get inside?”
“No.” She didn’t seem offended by me asking. “I was disappointed at the time.”
I took a Vienna finger from the plate and ate it, thinking about my next question. The cookie went down quickly and only made me hungrier. “You told me you’d never been in the house. It seemed odd to me because Lou was such a famous hostess,” I said. My parents had been to parties at Herrickson House many times. Lou had slowed down in her final years. There had been no big parties by the time I was old enough to go, but Vera had told me she’d been a neighbor for more than two decades.
