Steamed Open

by Barbara Ross

  When the photo was back in the frame I turned it over, examining it one last time. It felt like the image was screaming at me, begging me to decipher it and I could not.

  “There you are. Aren’t you the one who told us about a hundred times not to touch anything? Yet, here you sit at Lou Herrickson’s desk like Lady Muck.” Quentin’s scolding tone said one thing, but his grin said another. Probably because of my own guilty feelings, it took me a second to realize he was teasing. The heat rose in my cheeks.

  “Sorry!” I moved the photo to one hand and slammed down the desktop with the other.

  “Don’t apologize to me. What have you got there?”

  I cleared my throat, which was suddenly dry. “Nothing.”

  He didn’t hide his disbelief. “Yeah, right. Anyway, I was looking for you to tell you I found Wyatt. She’s on the front porch.”

  “Okay. Be right out!” Why was my voice so loud? So cheery? “You guys go ahead. I have my own car.”

  Quentin didn’t seem to notice. He turned and headed for the door. I stood up from the chair and pushed it back under the desk. Then, at the very last moment, trying not to think too much, I put the photo in my tote bag.

  * * *

  I flopped into one of the rockers on the porch and waited until Wyatt and Quentin were nearly to the parking lot before I slid the framed photo out of my bag.

  I studied it carefully. Frank and the toddler were at an outdoor party. I could get that from the scene behind them, the parts of people. Frank’s expression was tender; his eyes framed by his thick black glasses were wistful. He was older when it was taken, somewhere deep in middle age. Was he regretting his bachelor status, wishing for a child?

  The scene behind them, rendered in grayscale, looked eerily familiar. Where was it? I zoomed through my memories. Boxwood hedges and a particular gate. The gate to the house across Rosehill Road where Vera French lived.

  I put my hand on the glass to block out the shadows and strained to see. It was the gate, definitely, and behind it, far in the background, was a piece of the second story of Herrickson House. The trees along the driveway didn’t yet block the view. Frank and the little girl were on the inside of the gate, in Vera French’s yard. Which meant, if it was indeed a christening celebration, and it was held across the street at Vera French’s house, weren’t the owners likely to be the child’s parents? Or at least a close relative or friend.

  I went around to the back of Herrickson House and found the cellar door Wyatt and Quentin had entered through, which was propped open with a rock. I pushed the stone out of the way with my sneakered foot. The door swung shut. I wrapped the fabric of my tote bag around my hand and tried the knob. The door hadn’t locked. I opened it again to see if I could lock it from the inside, but when I turned the latch, the door wouldn’t close. I shut it again to see if I could get it to latch from the outside, but no dice. I was surprised the police hadn’t secured it in some way.

  There were so many valuables in the house, I worried about leaving it unlocked. I felt around the outside doorframe. It wouldn’t have been an unusual thing in Busman’s Harbor to lock a door but leave a key easily accessible for delivery and repair people who might enter through the basement. But my fingers scraped along the chipped paint, finding nothing.

  Finally, I closed the door behind me. I moved the rock that had propped it open back to the small bald spot on the lawn by the stoop where it had obviously come from. As I did, I spotted the impression of a skeleton key in the earth. So, there had been a key. But whoever had been in the house before us had taken or moved it.

  I wasn’t going to call the police and tell them the house was unsecured. That would result in way too many questions. Feeling a little sick, I walked down the path to the pedestrian gate. Holding the photo in my hand, I studied the green gate to Vera’s property across Rosehill Road. I was sure it was the one, though the photo had been taken from inside the yard looking out.

  I walked through the pedestrian gate, closing it carefully behind me to make sure it locked. Then I crossed Rosehill Road and entered Vera’s yard. Using the photo, I was able to figure out exactly where Frank had stood on the lawn with the child in his arms.

  Could that little girl have been Vera French, living here all along? No, that didn’t make sense. Vera wasn’t a diminutive of Elizabeth. Vera had said she’d never been inside Herrickson House. And, Vera had said she and Lou had been neighbors for more than twenty years, but the clothes in the photo were much older than that—fifty years or more.

  But maybe Vera had bought the house from Elizabeth Anderson or her parents? She was the best lead I had. I turned toward the cottage to find Vera.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Who’s that?” Vera French’s voice came from the wooden lounge chair with big wheels at the back and the orange striped cushion on the deck. I could barely see her from where I stood.

  “Julia Snowden,” I answered.

  Vera didn’t get up or even sit up. “Come here where I can see you.”

  I climbed the steps to the deck. She was prone on the lounge chair and wore a bathing suit covered with big, splotchy blue and purple flowers. A smart phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a pair of Bluetooth ear buds sat on the table beside her.

  “What can I do for you?” She asked it in a welcoming tone, not at all challenging.

  “I’ve come to ask about your house.”

  “My house?” Her face knotted in confusion. “This house? What about it?”

  Well, that was the rub. “I’m interested in people who used to live here. How long have you owned it?”

  “I don’t own it, dearie. I rent. This is my twenty-second season.”

  “Who owns it?” I asked.

  Her right eyebrow shot up. “You’re not thinking of renting it, are you?” She clearly didn’t want competition.

  “No, no. At least not during the season.”

  “Not during the off season, either. It’s not winterized. I leave every year at the end of September, and believe me, by then it’s plenty cold.”

  “I hear you.” I persisted. “Your cottage looks a lot like Herrickson House. I wonder if it might have been a part of the original estate. Do you know who the owners are?”

  “I deal with a management company out on the highway, Oceanside Realty. The owner of the cottage may be named on the rental agreement. I don’t honestly remember.”

  “Do you mind checking?”

  “Oh goodness, dear,” she waved an airy hand, “I wouldn’t know where to begin to look.”

  * * *

  Oceanside Realty was on the two-lane highway that led from Route 1 down the peninsula to Busman’s Harbor. The agency had been there as long as I could remember and was pretty much the only place in town for home sales or seasonal rentals. The owners had once had a corner on weekly and monthly rentals, too, but those had moved mostly to online services like Airbnb.

  There was one car in the small parking lot. I pulled the Caprice next to it and went inside. A woman about my age got up from behind a desk and came to the counter. The nametag on her blouse said MOLLY. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here about a property. It’s on Rosehill Road right across from the Herrickson estate.”

  “I know the one. Were you interested in renting? Because we have a long-term tenant there during the season.”

  I shook my head. “Actually, I want to know who the owner is.”

  Her eyelids half closed with suspicion. “Why? If you’re thinking you can cut some sort of a deal with the owner to rent or buy, you should know, we have an exclusive arrangement.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I’m looking into the history of the house. I’m trying to get in touch with the owner. It may even be a prior owner I need to speak to.”

  She relaxed a little. “I don’t know anything about the history of the cottage. It’s been on our books forever. Since long before I got here. We do the maintenance, you know, cut the grass, trim the hedge, close the place
up in the fall, open it in the spring. The minimum really. There’s no sense in doing any more. The tenant says she likes it as it is.”

  “Is there anyone else I can speak to—one of the owners of the agency perhaps?”

  “I doubt they could help. If you want to know the history of the house, why don’t you see Mark Hayman in the Code Enforcement Office? He knows every property in town.”

  “Of course, you’re right. Mark Hayman. Why didn’t I think of him?” I thanked her and headed for the door.

  “Good luck,” Molly called.

  “Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”

  * * *

  Town was full of tourists, jaywalking, weaving in and out of stores, carrying heavy parcels. The Caprice’s dashboard clock had stopped working sometime in the last millennium and I didn’t dare risk glancing at my phone until I pulled into the parking lot at the town office building. When I stopped, I was glad to see I had time to run in and give Binder and Flynn the photo. I was feeling guilty carrying it around.

  But the civilian receptionist said both men stayed in Augusta for the day, so I went across the hall to talk to Mark Hayman in the town’s Code Enforcement Office.

  Mark’s was the office that gave approvals to people for construction projects. If it was something simple, an addition to a house on a lot that was large enough for it, he could give the approval himself on behalf of the town. If it was a use that didn’t conform to existing zoning, the case would have to go before the planning board. Mark was the person who gave you that bad news and walked you through the process. He’d been the Code Enforcement Officer for more than thirty years, and he had an encyclopedic knowledge of every building in town.

  “How can I help you, Julia?”

  “I’m interested in a house on Rosehill Road.”

  His gray eyebrows traveled upward toward his gray hairline. “Thinking of buying? I thought Chris still had the cabin.”

  Chris did, as Mark well knew. He wouldn’t have missed that transaction. Even in my second summer back in Busman’s Harbor, I was still adjusting to the fact that a relative stranger, someone I didn’t socialize with at all knew, a) who my boyfriend was and b) what property my boyfriend owned.

  “No, no. I’m doing some research,” I assured him.

  He nodded. It was nothing to him. “Which house?”

  “The house with the rosebushes over the green gate.” I paused. “Across from Herrickson House.”

  “Ah, Spencer Cottage.” Mark sat at his desk and typed something into his computer. “Hmm. As I thought. Owned by the Spencer Family Trust. There’s a seasonal tenant there, if I recall correctly.”

  Of course he recalled correctly. “Vera French,” I confirmed. “She rents from Oceanside Realty.”

  Mark shrugged. That was none of his concern.

  “Is there anything more you can tell me about the Spencer Family Trust?” I asked.

  Mark scanned the screen. “It’s an oldie. The trust has owned the property since 1965.”

  The nineteen-sixties. That seemed like the right era for the photo of Frank Herrickson and the little girl. “Do you have the name of the trustees? Or maybe the previous owner? Or the beneficiary?”

  He looked at the screen again. “Previous owner, I don’t know. At some point the cottage was part of the Herrickson estate. Trust beneficiaries,” he looked at the screen again, “originally Eve and Arlen Spencer.”

  “How could it have been in a trust for so long?”

  “It is unusual, but not unheard of, for a trust to own a property for that long. It could be that Eve or Arlen’s parents left the property in a trust for the benefit of their descendants. I’m speculating you understand. It must be into the second or probably third generation by now. Usually these things break up—too many heirs, somebody wants out. The property gets sold.”

  “Do you have the names of the trustees in your system?” I repeated.

  “Nope. The contact is a law firm in Portland. Herrickson and Carroll. Hmm. Herrickson. That’s interesting. Of course, old Frank was a neighbor of theirs, so he’d be a natural to ask to create a trust.”

  “I thought Herrickson and Carroll didn’t exist anymore.”

  “Really? Frank is dead of course, but sometimes firms go on forever with dead partners’ names on the door. The property tax bill must be sent somewhere. Let me see.” He clicked to a different screen. “Here it is. Herrickson and Carroll, care of Dunwitty, Moscone, Tyler and Saperstein, 185 Middle Street, Portland, Maine.”

  I typed the firm name and address into my phone. “Thanks. Do you ever talk to the lawyers?”

  “About this property? No reason to. No one’s pulled a construction permit on it for as long as I’ve been here. As for the rest of the town offices, as long as the property taxes, town water and sewer, and so on are paid, we’d have no reason to reach out to them.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I used my cell phone to call Dunwitty, Moscone, Tyler and Saperstein. A hyper-efficient receptionist informed me that all matters relating to the defunct firm of Herrickson and Carroll were handled by Mr. Tyler, who was currently in court. After putting me on hold for a few minutes, she returned to say Mr. Tyler could see me at eight thirty the next morning. Our meeting would have to be short as he was expected to be due back at the courthouse.

  “Can I tell him what this is regarding so that he may be better prepared for your meeting?” She asked it in the same brusque tone that had characterized the entire conversation.

  “The Spencer Family Trust,” I answered.

  “Fine,” she said without a glimmer of recognition.

  I said my hurried good-byes. Once again, I was in danger of missing the Jacquie II.

  The boat was filled to capacity. Many visitors had switched their tickets from yesterday’s stormy day to today’s beautiful one. The group was full of anticipatory energy, like they’d all been penned indoors the day before. Children raced up and down the boat while adults chased after them, and the snack bar did a lively business.

  On the ride out, with some difficulty, I found a quiet corner on the lower deck to reflect on what I’d learned during the morning.

  If the black and white photo I’d found in Lou’s desk did indeed document a christening celebration, then there was a real possibility Frank Herrickson’s goddaughter and her parents had lived at Spencer Cottage. Which meant the beneficiary of the Spencer Family Trust might be Elizabeth Anderson.

  Binder and Flynn couldn’t dispute that Elizabeth Anderson was the single biggest winner from the death of Bart Frick. Was she waiting in the wings to claim her prize? I aimed to find out.

  At the clambake, I played my usual hostess role. One little boy asked me how lobsters mated and I delighted in describing the lobster’s complex life cycle, as well as we know it. As I talked, he turned his head, staring pointedly at his brother and sister playing tag next to the bocce courts. I’d given him way more information than he wanted.

  At last, we loaded the lunch guests on the boat and sat down to our meal. Livvie and her crew had prepared a tasty combination of clams in a white sauce served over baked potatoes, all of it rescued from clambake leftovers. I loved this particular dish, which Livvie had learned from our departed and dearly missed longtime cook. It was essentially the chowder we served every day, but in an upside-down, deconstructed sort of way. The meal was hearty and comforting, exactly when I needed comfort.

  As I ate, I watched Page and Vanessa turn cartwheels on the great lawn. They were both good athletes, keeping their legs straight as they flew into the air and landing gracefully on the other side. They shrieked as they played, working out their energy in a way we didn’t allow when there were customers around. Emmy stood off to the side, holding Luther and watching her daughter. When Vanessa cartwheeled, her long tawny hair brushed across the grass. She was such a beautiful child.

  It was painful to envision the horror that would come if she was Terry’s child, and if she carried the long strand of DNA that do
omed her to a loss of motor function and dementia. She was only ten. Maybe a cure would be found before she was old enough to experience symptoms. But what if it was a cure that worked only if administered before there were symptoms? In that case, denying Vanessa the knowledge about who her father was could deprive her of critical information about her health. I began to see some sense in Chris’s contradictory positions—not getting tested himself, but insisting Vanessa learn about her vulnerability to the disease so she could make a conscious choice.

  The second seating was as big as the first and equally successful. The crowd was subdued when they boarded the boat for the trip back to Busman’s Harbor.

  Again, I sought out a quiet corner to be alone with my thoughts, but Mom sat down next to me.

  “You haven’t been in the clambake office for three days,” she said.

  “I won’t be tomorrow, either. I’m headed to Portland first thing. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we have steamers.”

  “Is this about Bart Frick?” She knew me too well.

  “The Snugg sisters have asked me to help Ida.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should. Ida’s a good person.”

  “She killed her husband.”

  “She did. But she also served her sentence and has led a good life since. I don’t know what would have become of Lou without her. She certainly couldn’t have lived out her life in Herrickson House as she wanted.” Mom turned in her seat to face me. “If you don’t believe in redemption, in the ability of human beings to change and lead better lives, then I don’t know what you can believe in.”

  I squeezed her hand to show I understood. Bart Frick hadn’t had a chance to become a better person. Someone had robbed him of that. But who?

  When the Jacquie II pulled up to the town pier, Chris was waiting. I dashed ahead of the crowd and ran to him. He folded me in his strong arms.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” I asked.

  “Night off.”

  “The cab?” Normally, during the season, Chris spent his nights off from Crowley’s driving his cab.