“Could you tell who else was on the Sosoomy?”
“I think it was LaFlamme, the cop. Why would he be on Fred’s boat?”
Alisoun shrugged. “Got me. Despite his name, I didn’t get the impression he was too bright, did you?”
Ginny thought back to his questions during the afternoon. “More like persistent, I’d say. Like a dog that won’t let go of a bone.” She pointed ahead of the boat and called out in alarm, “Is that a rock?”
The rock surfaced, water sheeting off a brown, inquisitive face, then dove again. It circled the boat once, broke the surface to let out a loud, fishy-smelling breath, then swam away. Ginny laughed in relief. “No, it’s a seal. What a charmer.”
Alisoun put a little more room between the boat and the islet. “Yeah, they’re cute, but they can be dangerous if you make them mad. Anyway, I think we’re okay here for a bit. Give me the camera.” She leaned against the cabin and clicked through the images. “Hmm, a couple of these are not bad. Thanks for taking them. And this one”—she fiddled with the controls—“shows LaFlamme with Thompson. What are they up to?”
Mysteries, in Ginny’s opinion, were best left to the professionals. “I have no idea, Alisoun. Even if I did, who would I tell? I run an art gallery. I’m not a detective.”
“Neither am I. But I live here, and I don’t like what’s going on. Let’s go back. We can hash it out at Cobble Cove and maybe make some sense of it before we go to bed.”
Chapter Eight
In the magic half-light after sunset, the sea glowed. Ginny’s tension drained away into the twilight, replaced by a calm edged with watchfulness. She was content to let Alisoun steer the boat and find their way home, but she was also well aware of the precarious balance of life and death on the ocean. Wind could turn in a heartbeat and dash them on the rocky shore; a quake hours ago, far out in the Atlantic, could even now be shoving a wall of water at them. When she found herself worrying about Moby Dick rising from the deep to swamp them, she sat up and laughed at her imagination. More likely the motor would fail, the Effen-Stop would spring a leak, or Alisoun would get lost among the buoys and channel markers.
Not likely. Her companion seemed perfectly competent. Silhouetted against the clear sky, she guided the little boat with ease and confidence. Ginny settled down in her seat, resting her back against the cabin.
What was Linc doing out on the ocean? Why were Fred and LaFlamme pursuing him? Did it have anything to do with the attack on Bill Thompson? How could she find out, and did she want to? After all, she was heading home tomorrow, and who knew if she’d ever need to think about these puzzles again.
“Do you think they saw us?” Ginny raised her voice to be heard above the putter of the engine.
“Nah. We were just a little boat out to catch some dinner.” Alisoun’s teeth showed white in the lingering rays of the sunset. “Which, by the way, we didn’t. Catch any dinner, I mean.”
Ginny chuckled. “I’m stuffed, anyway. Thanks for taking me out.”
Alisoun throttled down and turned the boat neatly into the little cove where her dock lay. “No problem. I enjoyed it. We should do it again sometime.”
“That would be nice.” She gave Alisoun a smile. The distance between Ogunquit and her home on the New Hampshire seacoast would be manageable, just an hour or two of driving. A sudden shiver of anticipation surprised her with its intensity. Alisoun would be a terrific friend.
She drew the boat next to the dock and tossed a line around a bollard. Ginny snugged the stern up to another and gathered the remains of their dinner while Alisoun repacked her camera.
“Thanks, Alisoun. That was great,” Ginny said as they climbed onto the dock.
“It was. Thanks for coming with me.” Alisoun dumped the trash in a barrel behind the house and set the empty beer bottles in a bin next to it. “Pretty soon, it’ll be time to take this to the redemption center. Nickel a bottle adds up.” She accepted Ginny’s offer of a ride back to Cobble Cove; though she lived nearby, she was staying there to commune with the arts community. Ginny was grateful to have her in the car. Things changed in the dark, and she didn’t want to get lost.
****
After a final cup of coffee in the lounge and a bit more conversation with Alisoun, Ginny closed the door to her room and leaned against it for a moment before she turned on the light. What a day. The judging, the customers, a terrific lobster roll, that awful confrontation with Fred Thompson, John Hixenheiser’s overwhelming grief. Most of all, dinner and danger on the water with Alisoun. She thought a bit more about that. Had they actually been in danger from the two speeding boats, or had Fred, LaFlamme, and Linc failed to notice the Effen-Stop? She made an effort to replace her dread of the men with her delight in seeing the harbor seal. Never been that close to a seal before. I could fall in love with one. Maybe someday I’ll be seduced by a selkie. Laughing at her imagination, she drew in a deep breath and reached for the light switch.
Her hand halted in mid-reach. Something was wrong. A bolt of alarm ran up her spine and exploded at the base of her skull. Someone’s been in my room!
Fear froze her body in place, but her mind worked at light speed. What made her think her space had been invaded? Nothing moved in the room now. No hint of someone else breathing or shuffling outdid the throb of her blood in her ears. The curtains whispered in the breeze from the window, but no untoward shadows lurked behind them.
With all her senses strained to their limits, she snaked one hand behind her back to the doorknob and drew another breath. Something smelled different. The sea, the salt, the pines, and ferns…those scents belonged, as did the roses and the delicate odor of whatever fragrance lingered from the laundered sheets. She sniffed once more, focusing all her attention on her nose.
A subtle spicy scent. Familiar but not associated with anything that should be in the room. Masculine! A man had been in her room. She yanked the door open, flipped on the light, and jumped into the hallway in one smooth movement.
From the far end of the hall, Camille, carrying a pile of pillows, called out, “Ms. Brent? Is something wrong?”
Ginny shuddered and took another step away from her door. How to explain? “Something smells odd in my room. Has anyone been in there while I was out?”
Camille set the pillows on a convenient chair and approached. “I was in to put fresh towels in the bath this morning, but no one else should have been there. Let me check for you.”
Feeling foolish, Ginny followed her in. She verified her computer was where she’d left it, while the younger woman poked her head around the corners, into the bath and the closet, and even under the bed.
“Everything looks fine,” she reported, sounding like a mother checking for bogeymen. “I’ll ask Clyde if he was here, but there’s no reason why he would’ve been. What made you think someone was here?”
“I smelled men’s cologne or aftershave.” With Camille’s stalwart presence, Ginny’s fear abated, but she was by no means reassured. “It’s gone now.”
Camille inhaled and frowned. “Sorry, I don’t smell anything. Will you be all right here tonight? I’m sorry I can’t move you to another room. We’re all filled up, but I can put a motion detector on your door if that would make you feel better.”
The offer made Ginny blush. “No need. There’s a deadbolt. I’ll be fine. I guess I’m just tired.”
Camille smiled understandingly. “Sleeping in a strange bed can make anyone feel nervous, Ms. Brent. Happens all the time. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.” She gathered up her pillows and went on her way.
“Someone was here,” Ginny repeated under her breath as she closed and locked the door. “But no one is here now. I’m safe.”
Sleep was a long time in coming.
Chapter Nine
Very much to her surprise, Ginny woke refreshed just before her alarm went off on Sunday morning. She stretched luxuriously, and only when a hint of cinnamon joined the aromas of coffee and
bacon tickling her nose did she remember the alarms of the night before.
Someone—some man—had been in her room. She struggled to recall the scent that had aroused her suspicions, but it was buried under the immediate stimuli of breakfast. Like a refrain lost in another melody, it eluded her. She hoped it would reassert itself if she ever caught a whiff of it again.
Freshly showered, her belongings packed for the long drive home, Ginny took a farewell tour of her room before she went downstairs to the dining area. She poured herself a mug of coffee from the urn and sought a place to sit. To her dismay, Alisoun was not present, and the only free chair was at a small table for two in the window bay. Linc Shattuck was already seated there. He half-rose and waved her over.
Stifling her distaste for his company, she set her coffee on the table and allowed him to usher her into her seat. “Can I get you anything?” he offered.
“Thanks, I have my coffee. I’ll drink that first, then decide.”
“Don’t forget, we have the reception at ten o’clock, and there will be refreshments there.”
She eyed the croissants and scones with longing. Perhaps she should eat a little something with her coffee so she could enjoy the sure-to-be generous refreshments later. No, she should have a solid meal now and just snack later. She’d skip lunch to make up for the extra calories.
Camille set a pretty plate of elegantly molded butter pats before her. Ginny eyed them and gave up. She’d skip lunch and dinner to have a fresh, hot scone with butter. Or maybe a scone and a croissant. She could always go back to her sensible diet tomorrow.
“Sunday morning breakfast is the best way to start the week,” Linc declared after she’d accepted Camille’s suggestion of a Greek omelet with sausage patties. He mopped up the last of his over-easy eggs with a bit of dark bread.
“What’s the latest on Bill Thompson?” Ginny asked politely.
Linc shrugged. “Last I heard, they had no suspects. If you ask me, he just fell out of his boat and drowned. People do, you know.”
Ginny shot him a startled glance. How could anyone be so callous, even if they didn’t get along with the deceased? And surely, Bill would’ve been wearing a safety vest, wouldn’t he? She searched her memory of the body on the beach, but the details were already fading. She couldn’t swear to anything except for his outflung hand and the startling white feather. Those images were etched into her brain.
“I suppose they do,” she agreed reluctantly. “Have you seen Alisoun?”
He waved a hand. “She went off for a run early this morning, said she’d probably skip breakfast.” He sighed and patted his stomach. “I wish I had room for her portion. The food here is fabulous.”
She had to agree, especially when she lifted the first bite of her omelet to her mouth. It was light and fluffy, the salty feta a perfect foil for the creamy eggs and tangy olives. Maybe she should skip lunch, dinner, and breakfast tomorrow.
She managed to fend off Linc’s overtures once again, mostly by discussing the art to be honored this morning. Bill had garnered the People’s Choice Art award, and to her delight, Colleen Grebus won the People’s Choice Craft ribbon. She made a mental note to buy one of her jewels for herself, along with one of Kristina’s seal prints, to commemorate her encounter with the “rock.”
Just as she accepted a refill of the excellent coffee, Linc excused himself and rose to talk with one of the judges. Ginny froze. A hint of that spicy scent wafted across the table, but the two men walked off before she could localize its source.
Should she pursue it? Maybe it was a common aftershave, after all. Maybe what she smelled last night just came in on the breeze, when whoever wore it stood under her window. Probably she had worried over nothing at all.
She glanced across the room at Linc. He stood staring out a window, tapping a folded paper against his lips. Ragged tabs stuck out from one edge of the paper, as if it had been torn from a spiral binding. And the paper was heavy; it reminded Ginny immediately of a sketchpad.
****
Workers were just rolling up the canvas walls of the pavilion as Ginny arrived at the park. Many of the crafters had emptied their displays overnight to avoid shoplifting or damage and were now replenishing them, but most of the artists had left their stock in place, since the Art Council provided security patrols around the main tent. With docents assigned to their booths, the artists themselves milled around in the refreshment tent, enjoying baked goods and coffee while awaiting the announcement of the judges’ decisions. Ginny snagged a cup of decaf and eyed the scones, but refrained. She was still full from breakfast.
While the atmosphere was festive and anticipatory, it was more casual than the day before. By now, everyone had arranged their booths to their liking and become acquainted with their neighbors. An air of camaraderie prevailed. Chatter rose to a comfortable buzz.
“Can you come to the booth?” John Hixenheiser murmured in Ginny’s ear. He sounded both strained and weary to the bone. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
She turned in surprise. “Of course.” He must have gotten some sleep somehow; maybe his brother made him take a pill. Grief still hung on his shoulders and turned his face gray, but even more stress showed in his eyes today. This morning, he looked puzzled as well as grieving. “What’s wrong?”
He took her arm. “Just come, please.” He hurried her to Bill Thompson’s booth, where a couple in church-going clothes were browsing under Damon’s careful eye. John nodded to him and led Ginny to the closet, where he pulled a sketchpad out from under his arm. “This was in a waterproof box on Bill’s boat,” he said. “The police gave it to me last night.”
The pad was an ordinary one, fourteen by seventeen inches, with quality paper and sturdy back and front covers. She turned pages, noting the usual studies and rough-ins for later attention. It looked like any other artist’s pad she’d ever seen. Bill, she noticed, meticulously cut pages off the spiral binding rather than tearing them out, but in one spot, a couple inches of ragged edging clung to the loops. The pages after it were blank.
“Yes?” she asked John, raising her eyebrows. “What about it?
“Last week, he told me about a drawing he was planning to work on. He described it to me, but it isn’t here.”
“Well? I wouldn’t know where it is, would I?”
“It was a lobster boat, with traps piled on it.”
Whatever John was trying to say wasn’t getting through to her. She sipped her coffee, hoping it would stimulate her synapses, and leafed through the pad again. In the first few pages, she found buoys on a boat, gulls, a lighthouse, John’s profile, shells, a man’s arm, and a section of weathered fence. A few bare lines limned out a dory on half of one sheet, while the figure of a man was bent over a task on the other half. Throughout, Bill had left notes on sky colors and references to places in Ogunquit and Wells. On the reverse of the page before the torn one, she noticed some smudges of color. Pastels, Ginny thought. “I’m sorry. What am I looking for here, John?”
He turned to the inside of the back cover. “Bill never works on the verso, but here he made notes about a piece he was working on. Look.”
Ginny read aloud, “ALS aboard sosumy, check reg and colors, 4 pots. Cer, cob, vir, turq, UM.” The notes included a date, a time, and what looked like a registration number for a boat. Her mouth dried up. She looked into John’s eyes. “Please don’t tell me that’s Linc’s lobster license.”
His lips thinned into a grim line, and he nodded. “I’m afraid it is. I checked. Ginny…” He bit his lips.
She said it for him. “Linc was loading his lobster pots, his traps, onto Fred’s boat? But why?”
“Well, it could be legit, you know. If Fred was helping him out.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do, and I’ve only been here forty-eight hours. Even I know those two are at loggerheads over everything. And I’ve heard about them pulling each other’s traps. Well, I’ve heard about Fred pulling Linc’s
traps.”
“What if—”
“If Linc was setting it up to look like Fred pulled his traps?” She shook her head vigorously. “No, John. I’m sorry, no. I can’t get involved. I didn’t witness any of this.”
“But what if Linc found out about this picture and he…he was the one…” John choked. Anger suffused his face. “If he killed Bill…”
The coffee kicked in. Ginny’s synapses pulsed at an extraordinary pace. She riffled through the sketchpad again, and suddenly, everything fell into place. She understood it all. “We need a cop, John. Or Marine Patrol—”
“You can’t trust them, they buy fuel from Fred.”
“Find Alisoun Hodges for me, would you? She’ll know who we can talk to. Don’t worry, John, we’ll sort this out. Go!” She gave him an encouraging push, and he set off. She tucked the pad securely under her arm. Damon gave her an uncertain look, and she pasted a smile on her face for him.
“Everything okay, Ms. Brent?” he asked anxiously.
“It will be, Damon. It will be.”
****
But it wasn’t okay. By the time John came back with Alisoun, towing with her a quiet, nonthreatening sort of man, Linc had announced the winners, distributed the prizes, and disappeared. No one seemed to know where he’d gone.
“We need to find him.” Ginny would have gone after him herself, if only she could handle a boat. “If we can’t find him, we’d better find Fred.”
The quiet man stirred. “We know where Fred is. Don’t worry about that. What we need to know is what makes you think something is about to happen?”
Ginny paused a moment to consider him. They’d moved into a narrow, unoccupied space between the main pavilion and the street, under one of the maples. The shadows of the leaves played across the man’s face, so she couldn’t get a clear impression of him. “Who are you? What’s your interest?”
Oil & Water Page 6
