From the Murky Deep

by Kerry J Charles

  He didn’t believe her. Nothing that she said or did gave him any reason not to believe her. But he didn’t. It was his sixth sense as a detective, the instinctive moment when he knew something wasn’t right. It was what made him so good at his job.

  Nick started the car again and pulled it back out onto the road. He decided to go back to where Jennifer had been found. Again. He had been there with Johnson, but this time he wanted to be alone. He had to think.

  Nick drove along the winding roads from Prouts Neck around the coast to Cape Elizabeth. He turned into Kettle Cove and parked in the small public lot. It was a cool day, and the lot was mostly empty. Leaving the car, he walked onto the small beach and looked out at the ocean. He imagined what it would be like after dark, in the cold blackness. Pretty scary, he thought. Unless you were hallucinating and seeing mermaids.

  The phone number. That one stumped him too. He thought that Lydia might have known something more about it, but after questioning her, he did believe that it had come as a surprise to her as well.

  He had to find someone else who knew Jennifer. She couldn’t have been that much of a lone wolf. She couldn’t have been working alone. And for that matter, she must have been supporting herself somehow. She must have worked or done something for money. Nick had done his homework on the Hully family and they certainly weren’t well off.

  ‘When I get back to the station,’ he thought, ‘I’ll check the databases. She must have worked somewhere. Her name has to pop up on something.’ He hoped, more than believed, that it would.

  As Nicholas Black was gazing out at the ocean, Dan Chambers and his first mate Freddie were gazing back in. They had a boat full of happy tourists and were lazily making their way back around the cape. Normally Nick didn’t take this route, but the wind and tide had been right, so he decided to give it a try. His passengers didn’t really care, and he and Freddie needed the change of scenery.

  Freddie leaned over the back of the yacht then yelled up to Dan. “Cap’n! Sorry, but ya just hooked one I think.”

  Dan cursed under his breath and threw the engine into neutral. Smiling at the passengers, he said, “Sorry. It’ll take just a minute. We get hooked up on lobster buoys once in a while.”

  “How ‘bout we snag one for supper!” said a man toward the front. Everyone laughed.

  “No can do. Lobstermen are pretty territorial. They carry rifles just in case someone even thinks about their catch.”

  The man put up both hands in surrender and the passengers laughed again.

  Dan joined Freddie, who pointed at the buoy. “Got her good, looks like.” Dan exhaled loudly, grabbed the boat hook, and started disentangling the buoy. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to actually get in the water to get it free. Freddie watched him. “Funny the colors. That one’s different from these others.”

  Dan didn’t pay much attention to him. After a few minutes of tugging, it came loose. He watched it drift in the current away from the yacht. At that point, Freddie’s words sank in. It was different. It was gold and black while all the others in the area were orange and blue or yellow and red. He looked around for more buoys with the same gold and black pattern but saw none. “Yeah, you’re right Freddie. That is weird.”

  Freddie’s obsessive nature took over. “Cap’n, lets go back and check the numbering. We should see who has that one. Maybe they don’t know how to set it right?”

  Dan looked back at the buoy slowly drifting. “No, we don’t really have time. No big deal anyway.”

  “It does seem odd to have the different one,” said Freddie. “We should check.”

  Dan shook his head. “Really Freddie, we don’t have time. We need to get these folks home.” Freddie’s obsessive nature was usually helpful to keep everything ship-shape as he would often say, but at times it could get annoying. “All set!” Dan announced to the passengers. A collective cheer went up.

  Back at the helm, Dan grew more curious about the markings. As the son and grandson of a fisherman and lobsterman, he knew just about everything there was to know about the industry. He knew never to touch anyone’s traps. He knew how the lines were set. And he knew how to steer clear of them for that reason too, which was exactly why this trap did not make sense. He was running between the lines, and should not have been caught up on anything. He had not caught any of the others. This was a lone trap that did not seem to be set properly. It was probably crossing someone else’s line too, which they would not be happy about.

  “Probably a recreational guy who doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing,” Dan muttered to himself. The state issued a few recreational licenses but typically those traps were not among the commercial ones. The amateurs were cautioned to steer clear of the pros.

  Dan knew it would continue to bother him. He also knew that Freddie was not about to let the subject drop, either. He glanced at the shore, noting landmarks. He would be back to check it out, he was sure. No time right now, however. The trip back to Portland Harbor would be long enough.

  As he steered the boat back into the harbor at last, the passengers rustled about getting their things together. Dan watched Freddie moving among them, collecting trash, chatting, making sure they had a good time. He knew that Freddie was a find, but evidently it was a sentiment that Freddie’s wife did not agree with completely. ‘Guess they had different priorities for marriage back then,’ he thought. ‘Compatibility was not necessarily one of them.’

  An artist never really finishes his work;

  he merely abandons it.

  ― Paul Valéry

  CHAPTER 9

  When Amelia Davenport-Jones wanted something, she always got it. Sometimes it would take years, but once in her sights, she never quit the hunt. The Maine Museum of Art’s little Micronesian ceremonial bowl was now clearly in her sights. She knew the auction estimate from the previous year, before the piece had been withdrawn. It had been in the catalog. She saved that catalog, carefully bookmarking the page. She had looked at it nearly every day since.

  Amelia had planned to contact the museum’s previous director, Joshua Harriman, whom she knew well from social circles. From the bit of sleuthing she had done, she learned that he had instigated the idea of auctioning the piece to raise funds. He had convinced the board but then they had a change of heart. She was going to approach him personally about it but then the damned fool went and got himself killed. She shook her head, annoyed with the thought of having to start all over again cultivating a relationship with the new museum director, Dr. Chambers.

  The lunch had gone fairly well. She had presented her idea of buying the work. Dr. Chambers seemed receptive. Yet she hinted at a condition that annoyed Amelia. If she bought the work, she would be required to lend it to the museum for display at least twice over the following five years. It seemed that they had two exhibits on the long-term schedule that were excellent venues for the little bowl. Amelia did not like this. Once she owned a work, it was hers. She wanted complete control. She usually kept newly purchased items hidden away for some time so that only she could see them whenever she liked. This condition of the sale was not acceptable.

  Amelia was just about to leave her Beacon Hill townhouse when she was startled by the buzzing of her cell phone. “I cannot get used to that damned thing!” she said out loud. Then, grabbing it from her purse she yelled, “HELLO?”

  “Mom, it’s me. Stop yelling,” Clark Davenport-Jones had told her hundreds of times that the phone wasn’t a walkie-talkie or a short-wave radio. It was just like a regular phone in her house. “Just speak normally, Mom,” he had said over and over again. It never did sink in.

  “CLARK! What is it? Where are you?” Amelia did not have a high opinion of small talk.

  “Mom, I’m at home. Listen Mom, I have some bad news. It’s about Lydia.”

  Amelia’s heart jumped. Maybe Lydia had been in a bad accident. Or she had a terminal illness. Or maybe she’d had an affair and Clark was divorcing her! “WHAT?” shouted Amelia.

/>   “It’s actually Lydia’s sister, Jennifer. She died a few days ago. It was a scuba diving accident. They found her on a beach over in Cape Elizabeth. Lydia is pretty devastated. The funeral is in two days, on Saturday. I thought I’d let you know in case you or Dad wanted to be there.”

  Amelia paused, pulling the phone away from her head and looking at it for a moment through squinted eyes. Then she put it back to her ear. “Why on earth would we be there?” she yelled.

  Clark was silent. Then he quietly said, “To show a bit of support for my wife, perhaps?”

  Amelia heard the line click. She looked at her phone. Call Ended, it read. She sat down on the chair in the front hall of her home, staring at the phone. Her mind was working quickly, trying to make the right connections. Lydia’s sister. Jennifer. She had seen Ross talking with her at Clark’s wedding reception. Ross didn’t think that she noticed anything that he did, but she made it a point to be aware of everything. She hadn’t liked the liaison then and she liked it even less as time went on. Was liaison too strong a word? No, it seemed appropriate given how they looked when she saw them together. Or at least it was appropriate for the way Ross looked. The girl had seemed very cool and controlled. Interesting.

  Amelia heard a key in the door and stood up from her chair, pretending to dig in her purse. She looked up as Ross came through. He seemed a bit startled to see her. She remembered that the last time they had been together she had slapped him. She had to hold back a nasty smile thinking about it.

  “Ross, dear. I just got off the phone with Clark. It seems we’ll have to go to a funeral on Saturday. Lydia’s sister died.”

  It was as though she had slapped him again. His face grew white and he groped for the chair beside him. He sat down quickly, trying to regain his composure.

  “Is anything wrong, Ross? You look as white as a sheet,” Amelia said with feigned concern.

  “No, no. I’ve been having these headaches that come over me quickly. What was it you said? Lydia’s sister?”

  “Yes Ross. She’s dead. Some kind of swimming accident, I think. Clark wants us to come to the funeral, although I can’t understand why.”

  Ross nodded. He swallowed hard several times. “Where is it?” he asked at last.

  Amelia laughed. “You know, I didn’t think to ask. Why don’t you give Clark a call and find out the details. I’m stepping out for a bit. Must get to the gallery before it closes to pick up my new Albers. They’ve framed it beautifully!” She grabbed her purse and sauntered out the door.

  Ross sat in silence after the door closed. He felt sick. It was all going so wrong. Why had he started all of this in the first place? Ross Davenport-Jones was not the type to pull off clandestine deals and underhanded deeds. He did not have the stomach for it. Nor the heart for that matter, he realized as the pounding in his chest had yet to subside. Now what?

  He pulled himself up to a standing position again, waiting for several seconds to make sure that his legs would hold him up properly. Then he slowly shuffled into the study. He opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a hefty measure of brandy. It was the second time that day that he had imbibed in something strong. This business was going to ruin him in more ways than one.

  Sinking into the nearest chair, he rested the glass on the arm and listened to the clock ticking. It was calming. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. Suddenly, he heard a car horn from outside. It made him jump, spilling what was left of his brandy.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. Then he realized that there was nothing he could do at this point. He had to remain calm. “I’ll call Clark. Maybe if I have more details I’ll be able to figure out what’s next.” He reached in his pocket for his phone.

  Clark answered almost immediately. “Dad,” he said. “You’ve heard?”

  Ross nodded then realized Clark couldn’t see him. “Yes, your mother just told me. How’d it happen?”

  “The police said it was a diving accident. Scuba diving. Jennifer always was doing things like that. They said she ran out of air.”

  “Yikes. Tough way to go, I’d imagine,” said Ross, not knowing how to reply.

  “I have no idea. I don’t want to know. Dad, Lydia is pretty shaken by it. I’ve had the doctor in to see her. She had to identify Jennifer in the morgue too. It was awful. The strange thing is that she swears Jennifer would never go diving alone. We can’t figure out why someone wouldn’t have at least reported her missing if they’d lost track of her during the dive.”

  “That is a mystery. Very strange,” said Ross.

  “Anyway, the funeral is on Saturday. It’s at St. Mary’s, the Episcopalian one, in Scarborough. At eleven. Do you and Mom think you can make it? I know Lydia would appreciate it.”

  “Yes, we’ll certainly be there. Of course.”

  “Thanks, Dad. She needs everyone’s support right now. Oh, I hear her upstairs. She was napping. I’ll go see how she’s doing. Bye, Dad.”

  “Bye, Clark.”

  Ross put the phone back in his pocket. He should have tried to find out more. How did they find her? Where did they find her? He’d have to ask around at the funeral.

  #

  A soft mist had made its way slowly from the water, over the beach, and finally reached Lydia Davenport-Jones’s upstairs window. She had been awake and watching it for quite some time. It diffused the low afternoon light, surrounding the cottage with a strange yellow glow.

  Lydia had been thinking about Jennifer. Of course she had been thinking about Jennifer. There was little else that she could think about. But to keep her mind from focusing on the nightmare of being in cold water and not having air to breathe, she forced herself to think about Jennifer’s hand. The hand with the telephone number.

  When she had gone to the morgue she had seen Jennifer’s face. She looked peaceful although extremely pale. Lydia remembered thinking that she had never actually seen Jennifer pale before. She was outdoors so much that her skin always had at least some degree of suntan. Then she remembered what the policeman had said about her hand.

  The morgue attendant had looked at her strangely when she asked to see Jennifer’s hands but he had gently pulled them out from under the sheet. Lydia had thought it was nice that he was so gentle. As though he was trying not to wake her.

  It was the left hand. Jennifer was right handed, so she could have written the number herself. But the longer Lydia looked at it, the more she thought that it was not Jennifer’s writing. ‘Maybe I’m just fooling myself,’ she thought. ‘After all, if you write on your own hand, how much like your own writing could it possibly look?’

  Lydia thought about Dr. Chambers. She vaguely remembered her from school, years before. Dulcie had always been very smart and very quiet. ‘It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for,’ she thought. ‘And maybe she isn’t so quiet any more?’ For Jennifer to contact Dulcie would have been a huge risk, if it was to talk about anything related to art. Jennifer did love her risks, though.

  Life beats down and crushes the soul

  and art reminds you that you have one.

  ― Stella Adler

  CHAPTER 10

  Nicholas Black had attended far too many funerals, mostly for people that he had never even met. This was no different. He could tell at a glance who was truly sad, who would miss her, who was there to support someone else, and who would stay only for the minimum amount of time because it was expected. And there was often another person, sometimes more than one, that fell into one final group: those who liked to stir up trouble. Usually they were involved with the will in some way, but not always. Sometimes they were looking for justification, vindication, even revenge.

  He stood quietly on the side of the church, in the shadow of a column, not moving. “What do you see, Detective?” The whisper brushed his ear and made him jump. He froze again, but turned his head slightly to see Dulcie standing in the shadows behind him. “You’d make a good undercover cop, you know,” he murmure
d. She snorted softly in reply.

  Again, without moving, he said, “Third row, on the left. The older couple. Know them?”

  Dulcie leaned forward. Her chin was nearly on his shoulder. “That’s Amelia and Ross Davenport-Jones. Clark’s parents. Good of them to come.” She glanced at him curiously. “I thought you knew them vaguely, too?”

  “It’s been years. I was pretty sure it was them though. Just checking. Do you know Lydia and Jennifer’s parents? Would you recognize them?”

  “Not at all. But they shouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

  Nick nodded. “I should go sit. I’m too conspicuous here. Especially with you peering over my shoulder like that.” He turned to face her and rolled his eyes.

  “Decorum, Detective! This is a funeral, after all,” she whispered. They found seats in the very back of the church.

  “If anyone sees me here who knows me, they might wonder why I’m here,” Nick said. “No one is aware that it’s a murder investigation. Except you, that is.”

  “And the murderer,” Dulcie said.

  “Good point,” Nick replied. “But they don’t know that I know. Or that you know. And I’d rather keep it that way for now.” They sat silently, watching people filter into the long pews, nod somber greetings to each other, and quietly take their seats.