The plaint of all the bereaved. Including me. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said aloud. “You should be home. With friends, yes?” Please let him have friends.
“I can’t stand it. It’s so empty. My brother’s coming. I called him last night, but…” He gulped and drew in a shuddering breath. “But I had to bring this over.” He relinquished his tight hold on her shoulders and reached into the canvas bag he carried. “Bill always wants—oh, God—always wanted to have his most recent sketchbook with him.” He held out a spiral-bound pad and gave it a puzzled look. “I’ll show you. Behind here.” He pulled back a curtain that closed off a small portion of the booth to serve as a closet. He leaned down to open a folding pack full of miscellaneous art supplies and slid the pad into it. “There. That’s where he always has it.” He patted the pack and straightened up. Tears threatened again, and he dashed them away.
“John, go home,” she said gently. “Take a sleeping pill and get some rest. Let us take care of everything here for you. Do you need someone to drive you? Let me find someone.”
He rallied a little. “I walked. I need to walk. But thank you. Thank you. I’ll be…”
She pushed him onto the stool behind the counter. “Sit,” she ordered. “I’m calling you a cab.”
Half an hour later, Ginny wiped her brow in relief as a man who was nearly John’s twin led him from the booth and into a car with Pennsylvania plates. The brother. He must have driven all night. It’s a good eight hours from PA. I’m glad he made it and found John here. She turned toward the front of the booth; remarkably, no one had intruded on the mournful little scene, perhaps because the artists on either side had strung table covers across the opening to provide some privacy. She thanked them as she removed the cloths and folded them.
Kristina Russell, the watercolorist on the right side, shook her head. “John’s good people. Him and Bill…dammit.” She sniffled and lowered her voice. “Did you hear? They’re saying it’s murder.”
****
The rest of the morning passed quickly, with heavy crowds passing through the tent. Morbid interest drew many curiosity seekers to Bill’s booth, but when Ginny merely smiled and declined to discuss his death, most of them moved on. She was glad to talk about Bill’s art with those who stayed, and she encouraged them to sign the condolence book. Fortunately, another volunteer brought a stack of quickly-printed notes explaining simply that Bill had died unexpectedly and a memorial service would be announced as soon as possible.
As the festival goers headed toward the food vendors’ tent around lunchtime, she had a chance to chat with Kristina, who sold her charming images of playful sea creatures under the name “Kristina’s Kritters.” Ginny had noticed a steady stream of customers buying her paintings of seals, and she asked where Kristina went to study the endearing animals.
“I have a small boat, and I row out to the places where they sun themselves. They like the little islands and coves where people don’t go, especially the seaward side of the rocks.”
Ginny quailed at the idea of rowing on the ocean, let alone rowing solo, but Kristina looked strong enough to manage it.
“Most people, anyway,” Kristina continued. “The Sosoomy is all over the place. You know Fred Thompson? He nearly swamped me on Thursday, just around the point from Wells Beach.” She took a furtive look around and leaned in close to murmur, “And I’ll tell you something else. He had a load of buoys aboard that didn’t belong to him. Not that I’d cross him or sic the Marine Patrol on him. He’s got them in his back pocket, ’cause he sells them fuel on the cheap. And don’t think he doesn’t get favors in return.” She gave a sharp nod and turned away to serve a customer asking about a print of a crab on an algae-covered rock.
Thursday. That’s when Bill went missing, isn’t it? But didn’t someone say Fred was seen out on his boat that day? What time? And where? And how do I find out? Ginny shook herself. No. No mysteries. I have no business nosing around. Let the police deal with it.
No sooner had she resolved to keep her nose out of the affair than Fred Thompson himself turned up, offering to relieve her for lunch. Kristina narrowed her eyes at him and took a stance in the corner where their booths joined.
“Thanks, Fred, but a volunteer is supposed to come around pretty soon. Far be it from me to upset their schedule.” And I thought you didn’t like your cousin. Why would you—
“Do you need anything? Any prints or whatever from the back?” He edged toward the closet, reaching out to move aside the curtain.
“I’m fine,” she said, a little too loudly. A visitor glanced at her. “Thank you anyway, Fred. Really.”
He kept his hand on the fabric. “Sure? I could just sit here while you—”
She put some steel into her voice. “I’m sure. I can manage just fine.”
He settled into the canvas chair behind the counter. “Of course you can. Just being friendly. Say, have you given any more thought to that hahbah tour I suggested? It’s supposed to be fair tonight, long evening, you know. It’ll be nice out on the wahtah.”
She forced herself to sound regretful. “Oh, I’m sorry, Fred. The Arts Council has organized a trip with Claws and Effect, and I already promised I’d go.” She took up a casual position at the back of the booth, blocking his access to the closet. He still seemed extraordinarily interested in something back there. “But I do appreciate the offer. Maybe next time I’m up this way, we could get together. You’ve been very kind.”
Just then a very young man showed up, wearing a bright green Arts Council lanyard with a “Volunteer” badge dangling from it. “Hi, I’m Damon. I’m your lunch break,” he announced with a cheerful grin. “Can you sign my log? I need the hours for my community service project.”
Ginny chuckled. Damon couldn’t be more than a rising high school senior, if that, but he looked strong and capable. She explained about the condolence book, forcing Fred to move out of the way. While she was showing the young man the announcement of Bill’s death, she tilted her head toward Fred and said quietly, “Look, Damon, I have some private stuff in the closet, and I particularly don’t want that man rooting around in it. Okay? If that’s a problem, we can get more help.”
“Fred?” Damon scoffed. “Look, my dad owns Murphy’s Bar, so I know all about him. And if I have to, I’ll whistle up my Auntie Colleen. She blows glass, and no one messes with her when she’s got a heated rod in her hand.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, too,” Kristina called. “In case Damon needs any help with anything, I mean.” She winked. “Besides, I think I’m next on the list for a break. Go on, Ginny, get some lunch.”
Somehow, the thought of slightly-built Damon, Kristina with her dainty watercolors, and merry Colleen Grebus all ganging up on robust Fred Thompson did not reassure Ginny. Then again, she’d noted the hunting knife strapped to Damon’s waist. Kristina had to be strong from all her rowing. And Colleen with hot glass would be formidable. Whatever Fred was after, it was well-guarded. She fingered John’s card in her pocket and wondered if she should call him. Better let his brother tend to him. She’d only be gone half an hour, anyway.
It turned out to be a bit more than half an hour. The line for the ladies’ room was long, and she was still munching her lobster roll—when in Rome, eat like a Roman—when she returned to the booth. Fred was still there, and Damon…
Oh, dammit. Damon held Fred’s right arm twisted up his back, and he was reaching for his knife. Kristina hung onto Fred’s thrashing left arm with grim strength, while startled visitors scattered out of the booth. Damon let out a piercing whistle, which only attracted more attention.
She’d better do something.
“Well, this looks exciting,” she drawled, setting the roll carefully on the counter. “What’s up?”
Fred shook himself loose. “I was just standing here and these two—”
“These two” protested in loud voices, and Ginny shushed them. “I asked them specifically to keep an eye on the closet, Fr
ed. I’m sorry if they overreacted, but”—she gestured at the floor—“I’m afraid it looks like you weren’t just standing here.”
The folding art kit lay there, still strapped shut.
Fred flushed dark red. “Look, it’s not what you think—”
“Hot glass! Let me through! Damon, you okay? ’Scuse me, hot glass!” Colleen called out, shoving her way through the onlookers.
“It’s all right, Auntie,” Damon yelled back. “Thanks for coming.”
The crowd parted and Colleen emerged, a glowing rod held high above her head. The tip sagged awkwardly. “Aw, now look what you’ve done. Another mess to toss in the glory hole.”
Any second now the security guard would show up, and Ginny desperately wanted to avoid that complication. “Okay, the excitement’s over, folks,” she said. “A misunderstanding. No harm done. Colleen, thank you for coming. I’ll pay for the glass. Kristina, Damon, I think you overreacted.”
“But you said—” Damon began.
“Later, Damon,” she whispered urgently. “I’ll explain later.” She stuck her hand in the crook of Fred’s elbow, and as she suspected he might, he bent his arm like a gentleman. “You and I need to talk,” she ordered. “March!”
She said nothing else until they reached a relatively private spot behind the caterer’s van. Ginny made sure a few people were in sight and watching, even if they were too far away to hear. “Okay. Explain. Make it quick, I want to finish my lunch.”
He sighed. “I just wanted to look at Bill’s sketches. Believe it or not, I am interested in his art.”
“Try again.”
His face hardened.
It was her turn to sigh. “Fred, I meant it when I said you’ve been kind to me. Whatever is going on between you and your cousin, I don’t want to know, and I don’t want to be involved.”
“He was sketching my boat,” he blurted.
“So?”
“So, I wanted to see the sketch.” His eyes didn’t meet hers.
She glared at him for a moment. “If that’s all, you could’ve just waited and asked John when things settle down. What are you not telling me?”
He sneered. “That—? Well, I won’t say it. I wouldn’t take a thing off his filthy—”
She balled her fists to prevent herself from hitting him. “Look, I could get Officer LaFlamme and accuse you of attempted theft. Or you could go away and leave me alone for the rest of the weekend. Your choice.”
He drew himself up to his full height and tilted his upper body with exaggerated politeness. “It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Brent. I hope you enjoy your stay in Ogunquit,” he said, in a voice laden with sarcasm, and stalked away.
Ginny let him go, then took a deep breath. Time to go back and smooth things over.
Chapter Seven
By the time the Festival ended at six p.m., Ginny was weary to the bone. Officer LaFlamme, who turned out to be an off-duty cop from a neighboring small town just inland, had questioned her closely about the fracas at the booth. Linc pestered her all afternoon with his concern over the incident; offered drinks, snacks, and a replacement docent; and even suggested she return to the B&B to “rest.” She declined his suggestions, but took advantage of his solicitousness to cry off the evening cruise planned for the judges and artists. The last thing she wanted was to spend more time in his presence. She was looking forward to her escape back home to New Hampshire after the Sunday brunch. There wasn’t a cab to be had, and she was too drained to deal with a trolley, whose drivers tended to act as cheery tour guides.
Alisoun Hodges fell into step with her as she plodded back to the B&B. “I hear you had an exciting day,” she said, her eyes bright with curiosity.
Ginny shrugged. “Honest, Alisoun, I don’t want to talk about it. It was rough. I’m just tired, and I won’t get involved in whatever is going on between the Thompsons.”
“Don’t blame you. Got plans for dinner?”
“A bottle of wine and take-out Chinese in my room.”
Alisoun let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, that sounds great! Can I suggest a change of venue? How about my boat? I’m going out to see if I can get some sunset shots to match the sunrise I got yesterday.”
Ginny was inclined to demur, but something in Alisoun’s face made her curious. “If we can sneak out without being seen…”
“I thought of that.” She slipped a basic map drawn on a napkin into Ginny’s hand. “I have a little house on Drakes Island. Which isn’t really an island, by the way. Meet me there in half an hour. We can launch my putt-putt into the river and go out through Wells Harbor. Gotta have enough time to reach the spot I want and set up the cameras. I’ll get the food if you bring the drink. Oh, and Cloutier’s goes great with Chinese.”
****
In just under thirty minutes, Ginny parked on the gravel drive beside a weather-beaten cottage tucked under a huge, wind-sheared pine. From a small motor boat tied to the dock out back, Alisoun hallooed and held up a large white tote bag emblazoned with a red dragon. In return, Ginny displayed her six-pack of beer. The fatigue dropped away from her shoulders as she spied the warmth of Alisoun’s smile. Maybe she could salvage something good out of this weekend.
The younger woman made short work of casting off and steering the boat to sea. They skimmed over a few choppy waves that made Ginny grab the gunwales and eye the life vests hanging along the side of the tiny cabin, but once Alisoun steered into deeper water beyond the sea walls, the ride smoothed out. The Effen-Stop appeared to be a miniature version of the lobster boats she’d seen plying the waters along the coast, but it lacked the distinctive paint scheme required by law for those commercial boats. Alisoun’s was plain white, with a single blue stripe at the waterline. The photographer handled it with an ease that bespoke a life on the water.
After about twenty minutes, Alisoun throttled down and tossed out a sea anchor. “We’ll eat here. Sun’ll be setting behind Agamenticus, and I should be able to get some great shadows on the east side of it while there is still light on the peak. Hand me a beer.”
They ate in companionable silence. The winds had died, and the sea lay as cool and green as one of Colleen’s glass gems. Alisoun pointed to a messy pile of sticks in a tree clinging to a rocky islet. “Bald eagle,” she said around a mouthful of pork fried rice. A few minutes later, Ginny caught her breath at the appearance of a sea turtle off their port side.
“That’s a Kemp’s Ridley.” Alisoun shook her head. “We’re seeing more of them as the ocean warms. Good news for tourists, bad news for turtles. Last year, we rescued I don’t know how many when the currents went through a cold spate. The buggers nearly froze.” She swallowed the last of her beer, tossed the bottle into a box, and opened up a waterproof bag. “Here’s where I go to work.” She extracted a camera body, a heavy-looking long lens, and a flexible tripod. Once the pieces were assembled, she locked the tripod into clamps mounted atop the cabin.
“How do you counteract the motion of the boat?” Ginny asked.
“Vibe reduction and lots and lots of exposures. God bless digital! I used to waste miles of film for every halfway decent shot I got.” She eyed the angle of the sun. “Now we just wait. If those clouds move into frame, I should get some nice shadow effects on the water. If not, I hope they don’t block the sunset.”
Ginny let the warm rays, the sweet-salty tang of the sea, and the slight bobbing motion of the Effen-Stop lull her into a drowse. The beer and her full stomach contributed to a state of relaxation she seldom achieved at home. Her ears registered a rapid click-click-click, but it took a moment for her brain to identify it as the sound of Alisoun’s camera. A loud “What the hell?” broke into her somnolent ease, and she opened her eyes in alarm.
“Stay down!” Alisoun hissed. “Slide lower and get into the cabin. Here, take the camera. If you can do it without being seen, take some shots through the window.”
“Of what?”
“Damned if I know. Looks like Linc’s old relic is
being chased by the Sosoomy. I don’t think they know the Effen-Stop, but I’m going to put about behind the eagle’s nest. Hope the tide is high enough. I’m not real familiar with the rocks on the ocean side.”
What is Linc doing out on the water? Shouldn’t he be on the cruise by now? Ginny’s heart rate went from Zen to Hot Yoga in the space of an eye blink. And why the heck am I in the middle of this?
Alisoun wasn’t putting any effort into eluding the two boats. The Effen-Stop’s motor was barely turning over, and when Ginny peeked out of the cabin, she found her companion seated casually in the stern, holding a fishing rod. Her back was to the chase; in the fading light, she was anonymous.
“They’re off to our port, Ginny,” she said, just loud enough to be heard above the grumble of the motor. “No, to the left. Get some shots. Can you zoom? I’d like to see who’s aboard.”
Ginny shimmied to the tiny window. Her experience with cameras was strictly amateur, but she knew enough to twist the lens to tighten the field of view. The camera automatically focused as she depressed the shutter. “Not sure,” she called softly. “Somebody else is on Fred’s boat.”
“Do your best. We can enhance digitally later. And—oh damn! Swing around and shoot some of Mt. Aggie. Exactly what I wanted!”
Ginny aimed the camera west and held down the shutter, clicking off three-shot bursts while she panned up, down, and to either side. She kept it up as Alisoun maneuvered the boat around the islet and only stopped when she could no longer see the mountain.
“Did you get anything?” Alisoun demanded, once she had throttled down the engine. She kept her hand on the controls and nervously scanned the waters around her. “Keep your eyes open for rocks,” she ordered.
How would I know? Ginny scouted the water for ripples or splashes, but the sea was calm. How do you tell if there are rocks underwater? “I took a lot of shots. I hope some of them turn out for you. The mountain was gorgeous.”
Oil & Water Page 5
