Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  How Michael King—when not vacationing in their sleepy town—was actually a thirty-year-old student, taking classes at a community college and still living with his parents. How he worked part-time as a Walmart check-out clerk. How he spent his free time volunteering at a nursing home. How he had an artificial leg. And how his Saturday nights were spent moonlighting at a local pet store, cleaning cages and sweeping floors.

  “I don't believe it...” Hazel remarked, her voice more filled with wonder than incredulity. Because, really, who could make something like that up?

  “Vickie swears her information is solid.”

  “Well, who told her all this?” Hazel asked.

  “A friend in the police department, Vickie said. And you see that? Our local police force was obviously a few steps ahead of us. They looked into the young man's background for themselves just to be sure. Can you believe, all that and a false leg!”

  “Hmm...”

  “See that,” Ginger said again, “no one is going to let anything bad happen here.” While Hazel seemed to mull all that, Ginger put in, “You must admit, he hardly sounds like someone we need to worry about.”

  Something else had Hazel's attention now.

  “Please,” Hazel begged, talking directly to the dog. “Really, now, that's quite enough!” Puddle froze. Blinked around. Then tugged again with her teeth and shot her eyes up toward Hazel’s. “Oh, for heaven's sake,” Hazel grumbled. “Have this.” She broke off a piece of one of her tea biscuits and tossed it on the floor. Puddle released her slipper and scampered over to snatch up the cookie. Stunned, Ginger couldn't believe her eyes. Hazel throwing food on the floor? Allowing the scatter of crumbs on the rug?

  Cautiously, Ginger eyed her sister.

  Hazel seemed preoccupied with Puddle, who chomped on the biscuit happily and then hopped up onto the settee. Ginger waited for her sister to squeal, to recoil, to pitch a fit, but instead, Hazel just twisted her lips in disapproval. Then she did something unexpected. Slyly, she reached over and broke off another piece of tea biscuit. She held it a few inches from the dog’s twitching nose.

  While the dog crunched it, Hazel turned her head. As if to see whether Ginger was watching. Smartly, Ginger had dropped her gaze, pretending to notice only her crochet.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Dear Nicole,

  Several months ago I went through a brief remission. I used the spurt of energy to paint again. I'm sure it's no surprise that I found much happiness in the subject of you and your sisters. Robert and I always wanted children of our own. As expressive as I can be, I can not properly say how much I truly love you girls.

  These paintings are my gift to you. So much of what I had planned to leave you has gone now, lost to medical bills and other expenses, and I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that it broke my heart not to be able to give you more. Given how much the value of an artist's work increases posthumously (sorry to be macabre), it occurred to me that I could secure a very modest fortune for each of you, after all. (Though you're welcome to sell the house, I have a feeling that you won't.)

  The problem, I realized, was that the Goliath Gallery in Boston still has me under contract. I'll spare you the legalese, but basically, even though the contract expired at the end of August, the gallery retains ownership of any new works created within a six month grace period from that end date. It's called the Termination of Rights clause; as you can imagine, it protects the gallery. Gallery owners can be very suspicious, worried that their “temperamental artists” might hold back new works until their contracts expire and then go right to another gallery. Which, I'm afraid, is precisely what I'm attempting.

  The Goliath Gallery has no knowledge of these new works. I painted “The Three Princesses” for you girls—not for Goliath to snap up, sell off, and then give you a percentage. The only person who knew I'd begun painting again was Abel. He hadn't said much one way or another at first. Honestly, he'd been so preoccupied about his business and all the money he'd lost. It pains me to say, but while I still loved him, we'd become nowhere near as close as we used to be.

  Things got worse after I hosted a luncheon for the Chatham Preservation League of Ladies about a month back. Later in the evening, after everyone had gone home, my doorbell rang. It was one of the ladies, Edith Winchell, returning. I'd never cared much for Edith, though I didn't know her well. But I couldn't fathom what she would want. I was beyond stunned when she told me that earlier, during the luncheon, she had gone in search of the bathroom and accidentally “stumbled upon” my studio. She told me that she'd seen my latest work on the easel, and that she was prepared to buy it from me, right then and there. She proceeded to pull out a thick wad of cash and try to make an exchange!

  So many thoughts were running through my head. First of all, I didn't believe she'd stumbled upon anything; she must have been wandering around, or even snooping. At the very least, she'd lifted the sheet covering the painting. I recalled one or two ladies in the past making snide remarks that this or that in their homes had disappeared after Edith had been there, and I thought that perhaps there was something to those snide little insinuations, after all.

  The other, more pressing thought I had was that I needed to deny what Edith saw. I couldn't have the word get out that I was producing new work; it would ruin everything I was trying to achieve. As far as everyone knew, I had retired from painting. That was what I needed people to go on believing.

  So I tried to fool Edith, told her simply that she'd been mistaken, that she'd confused the artwork for mine, but she wouldn't be swayed. When she offered me even more money, it confirmed to me that she was acting on Chester Northgate's behalf. Where else would a housekeeper get this kind of money? And everyone knew that Chester was an art patron and collector.

  Because of Edith's persistence for this painting she'd seen—the one of you, Nicole, as a little girl, sitting in front of a tree—I could only assume that she'd mentioned my new painting to Chester after the luncheon and he'd insisted she return and barter for it on his behalf. It seemed probable to me that, given my precarious health, Chester considered a “Nina Corday” to be a good investment.

  In any case, Edith wouldn't let up. She became almost agitated, demanding that I sell her the painting. She kept saying, “the painting of the girl in the blue dress and a tree, you know what I'm talking about.” I finally managed to get her to leave, but the whole conversation rattled me so much, I told Abel all about it. I was expecting some support, but instead, he told me I was being foolish. He said that I should sell my new work to this woman for quick cash. He emphasized that it would all be under the table, so the gallery would never know. He kept repeating the words: “quick cash.” Uncomfortably, I started to worry that it was really he who wanted the quick cash. That perhaps he figured once I had it, I would give him some. It broke my heart, but I just didn't feel like I could trust him anymore. I suppose financial downturns can change anyone, but Abel wasn't quite the man I'd known.

  It was at that point that I decided to hide “The Three Princesses.” I asked my friend, Herman MacDonald, to help me. I probably should have trusted him from the get-go, because he always seemed to have a soft spot for me. At my request, Mac hid them in the tree house and didn't even ask why. Without hesitation, he promised to keep it a secret. I told him that if anything happens to me before March (figuring six months from August), to have the Annabelle flowers sent to you; he would only need to date and fill-in the check I'd signed and left with him. Mac became terribly upset, with me talking of death like this, but I'd become almost lawyer-like about the possibility. I guess illness and weakness first makes you paranoid, then makes you practical.

  I hope you never need to find this letter. I hope I make a full recovery and am able to give you the paintings outright someday. If you do find this, hold onto the paintings for at least a year. Whenever you do sell them, sell them in New York. You shouldn't have any problems then. Goliath has so many artists to focus on, and besides tha
t, is firmly rooted in Boston.

  All my love, always,

  Nina

  Michael finished re-reading the letter, and set it down on his lap.

  Deep in concentration, he sat in the living room of his townhouse. The room was dark except for one light on the table beside the couch. Just yesterday he'd said goodbye to Nicole and to Cape Cod, but both still weighed on his mind.

  The letter explained a lot, but not everything. Like what Abel Kelling had been doing dead in Nina Corday's basement. The letter was dated September 5th. Nicole had mentioned once that her aunt died in early September from a fall down her stairs, which put this letter eerily close to her death. According to Nicole, the fall was attributed to her aunt's frail health.

  Michael kept returning to this thought that whomever had duped Lucius about the Demberto had not been seeking money in this, after all. He had been seeking a specific painting—the girl in the blue dress. And if not for money, then for what reason?

  Was it this art connoisseur mentioned in the letter—Chester Northgate?

  Where had Michael heard that name before? He thought back and then it dawned on him. It was the night he'd first met Nicole. At the Chatham police station one of the cops had said that Chester Northgate and his housekeeper had spotted Lucius. In fact...hadn't they accused Nicole's assailant also of stealing a motorboat?

  Suddenly, Michael sat forward. Why hadn't he recalled this sooner? Things began to come together. Chester Northgate had lied to put the police in the wrong direction—while his confederate, Lucius, slipped off to a motel and awaited further instruction. It stood to reason that just as Edith Winchell had been doing Chester's bidding that night when she returned to Nina's house to buy the painting, she'd also given her witness statement to the police at Chester's request.

  But hadn’t someone else backed up that story, too? Wasn’t there another “witness” who set the police in the same direction? Jim White of White’s Nursery—wasn’t that what Officer Donovan had said? What reason would some guy who ran a tree nursery have to lie to the police? Was he doing Chester Northgate’s bidding, too?

  Now the other unavoidable question: why such secrecy? Why not have Lucius, or some other criminal, break into Nina Corday's house? Why not stage a burglary, with that one paining as the true objective?

  Michael had a thought. Maybe because a break-in so soon after Nina's death could make her death suddenly seem suspicious? He was vaguely aware that his mind was spinning out of control, but he was not inclined to stop it. Instead, he hopped to his feet and began pacing, thinking this through.

  You only got one shot at a break-in, he reasoned. What if Lucius had busted in, but come out without the painting? According to Nina's letter, Chester's housekeeper kept saying, “the painting of the girl in the blue dress and a tree, you know what I'm talking about.”

  Impatiently, Michael crossed over to his desk. He switched on his laptop, which was sleek and black like most of the furnishings around here; damn, he'd never realized just how uninviting his place was until now. The computer screen lit up almost instantly, and Michael began searching online for information about this man, Chester Northgate.

  Chapter Fifty

  GIRL GOES MISSING AT SCHOOL PICNIC; LOCAL PHILANTHROPIST FUNDS SEARCH. Michael had tried fifty different search word combinations, before he’d struck gold. An eerie, murderous kind of gold. The article was from 1999. It detailed the disappearance of Marlee Wurther, a fourth grader at a nearby school who had wandered off during the annual picnic.

  Local philanthropist, Chester Northgate, expressed his profound sadness and concern for the missing little girl and her parents, and has offered a $500,000 reward for the return of Marlee, unharmed, to her family. Marlee's parents, Anna and Rick, have thanked Northgate publicly for his generosity. “He proves the goodness of the human spirit,” Anna Wurther has said. Marlee was last seen wearing a navy dress with a white collar.

  The article paid lip service to the general speculation that Marlee had drowned—that she had possibly fallen into the ocean, as the picnic had been adjacent to the beach, and her parents confirmed that she couldn't swim. There were several articles on the case. When the girl was not found in the following months, people tended toward the theory that she had gotten carried away with the tide.

  Now Michael studied the photo on the lower corner of the screen. According to the caption, the photo was of Anna and Rick Wurther, and Chester Northgate, standing in front of Northgate's home. The infamous housekeeper, Edith Winchell, was nowhere in sight. The house that stood behind them was a huge medieval-looking thing with tall arched windows.

  He minimized this window and opened another. Then did an image search of Chester Northgate. What the search pulled, besides photos of Chester himself at various publicized events, were photos of his house. Apparently it had been photographed for an architectural magazine in 2001, and while Michael flipped through the images on his screen, he noticed something. Wait—no...

  He flipped to the previous page, zoomed in, checked the date of the photo. Then he went back to the minimized screen and studied that photo again.

  Nina's letter replayed in his mind. The girl in the blue dress and the tree. It was the first Michael had heard mention of a tree. The photo of Chester Northgate's house from 2001 showed a thick, triangular tree in front of it, diagonally obscuring one of the windows. An odd place to put a large tree. And did it grow of its own design?

  Not according to the photo from two years earlier, the snapshot with Anna and Rick Wurther in 1999. They stood with Chester in front of his house, and there was no tree. No tree obscuring the window...no tree covering anything...Holy shit... Swallowing, Michael tried to keep his focus sharp. This might be the long-shot of the century, but what the hell? It was worth a try. Maybe the old guy had just had some landscaping done, but let's evaluate the facts, along with theory:

  A girl in a blue dress with a white collar goes missing, not far from the beach, near where Chester Northgate lived. Chester jumps into the search and makes himself a hero; he also happens to plant a big tree in an unusual spot on his property soon after. When his housekeeper tells him of the painting she saw at Nina's house—the one of a girl in a blue dress with a white collar next to a big tree—he suddenly hands her a wad of cash and tells her to go back and get the painting. When her mission fails—and soon after Nina Corday dies—Chester contracts Craig Lucius in a scheme to get the painting out of that house, telling Lucius whatever he needs to hear to go along. Sure, Northgate could have named a more famous artist than Demberto, but then he'd run the risk of Lucius's greed overriding their alliance. For enough money, Lucius would chance it and break in, taking it all for himself. That was the thing—there was a psychology to working with others, no matter what the work.

  Michael couldn't deny that his theory was a jumbled mess. It still didn't explain what Chester would have had to do with Marlee Wurther's disappearance, if anything. Or why a painting reminiscent of the incident would obsess him so. Either way, Michael had a plan now. If nothing else, it would distract Northgate and Lucius, and potentially keep them from coming after Nicole again. Hell, when Michael was done, the last thing on Chester Northgate's mind would be Nicole Sheffield.

  ***

  The following morning began like every other at the Chatham police station. Sunlight slid through the wooden shutters and gave a striped caramel coat to the battered, rustic furniture. The phones were quiet. Unceremoniously, Irene dropped the morning mail on Donovan's desk and continued on to the coffee maker behind him. “Thanks,” he said, barely glancing at the stack, which was usually junk mail. Then a tall brown envelope caught his eye. He pushed it out from the bottom of the stack and saw the “overnight mail” sticker along the edge. “What's this one?”

  “I don't know,” Irene replied. “I left my X-ray vision at home.”

  With a half-grin, Donovan tilted his head back. She was leveling spoonfuls of coffee out of the ceramic canister that sat on the file c
abinet. “How long?” he asked, impatient for her coffee.

  “Three minutes, same as always.” Around the station, Irene was motherly in more ways than one. It wasn't just the plump, matronly way she looked, but also the efficient way she took care of them—and the untactful way she spoke her mind.

  Never much for letter openers, Donovan tore open the envelope with his bare hands. Pulled out the papers that were inside—three sheets, clipped together. A two-page printout of an article about a girl gone missing. What's this...? Donovan thought, skimming the text. '99 was before his time in Chatham; he'd come to town only two years earlier. There was a circle in heavy black pen around the photo that ran with the article. Hmm, a photo of old Chester and two other people, standing outside Northgate's home.

  Curiously, Donovan flipped past the article; the third sheet was another printout. This one a photo of Northgate's house. This time, the thick black pen circled the tree in front of the house. Beneath the picture, a message was scrawled in a masculine, sloppy hand. It read: Want to solve an old crime? Look under the tree.

  Furrowing his brow, Donovan flipped back to the top sheet, then to the second, then the third, and so on, until he muttered aloud, “I'll be damned.”

  “What is it?” Officer Spackel said, now at the coffeemaker, pouring himself a cup.

  “It's not done yet!” Irene called from across the room, but the men ignored her.

  “Look at this,” Donovan said, passing the pages to Spackel, who glanced, then looked doubtfully at Donovan. “You don't think...”

  Donovan shrugged and stood up. “Let's find out.”

  “Wait...you mean...” Spackel seemed alarmed. “No, wait. We can't go over to Chester Northgate's with this.”