“I can’t eat until I call David,” he said.
Laney Murphy slipped an electrolyte supplement into her water bottle and waited for it to dissolve, shaking it gently, while she unrolled her yoga mat and draped it over her shower door to dry. The basement apartment of her father’s old brownstone on Beacon Hill was low-ceilinged and dimly lit, but the bathroom, like the rest of the space, was recently renovated and shone with a marble chill. David Murphy was fastidious. He’d won their longtime cleaning lady when he’d divorced Laney’s mother and doubled the woman’s working hours. Since moving back in with her dad four months before, Laney had learned to keep her chaotic life shut tightly in her bedroom. She never left a stray flip-flop or hair band anywhere in the rooms upstairs, which her father had arranged like a museum: discreet picture lights beaming gently on the framed art that lined the walls, chairs precisely positioned around low tables boasting a single potted succulent, a single magazine. There was nothing at all on the long, pale gray quartz kitchen counters. Curious, Laney had opened the oven door one night after her father was safely in bed, and scanned the inside. Just as she thought: it had never been used. He had torn out the old kitchen when her mother left, replaced everything down to the last spoon, and then metaphorically turned off the lights. The house seemed sterile without the odors of garlic and lemon, rosemary and lamb, chocolate and raspberry. The only thing David ever made was coffee, in a gleaming new machine piped into the wall that ground its own beans and steamed its own milk. Laney had not yet mastered it and never would; she preferred green tea.
She pulled a sweatshirt over her head, thrust her feet into a pair of sheepskin-lined slippers, and ran lightly up the stairs to the empty kitchen. It was half-lit, like the rest of the rooms, when most of the gorgeous old houses on Charles Street were glowing with lamplight and conviviality. The drinks hour, Mom always called it, as she poured herself a glass of wine and scooped a handful of cashews from the pantry. The ritual signaled the end of the work or school day when Laney was little, the shift to indoor warmth and comfort after the grittiness of daily life in Boston, like throwing a match on the fire in winter or slipping into a hot bath when her muscles ached. Comfort had leached out of her father’s house when Mom left. Laney thought of her now, pouring a similar drink, probably, in her studio in Brooklyn—but alone. Or maybe not: Mom had a genius for making friends. Maybe she was sitting with one at a tiny table in a trendy neighborhood bar, her gray hair sliding from behind her ears, laughing.
She had invited Laney to move in with her when the teaching job had turned out to be unbearable and her work as a yoga instructor failed to pay the rent. But Laney knew how small the studio was. She’d be sleeping on a pullout couch and folding it back up every morning. There was nowhere to store her clothes. She’d have no privacy. Neither would Mom. She winced at the thought of her mother bringing a stranger back to her bed at night—that was totally mind-blowing and uncomfortable to envision—but all the same, she didn’t want to invade Mom’s freedom. Kate had spent enough years taking care of Laney as it was. And then there was Dad—
Dad, who had retreated even further into himself now that Mom was gone. Whose fluorescent pallor, under his close-cut cap of silver hair, suggested a life lived behind bars.
She opened the refrigerator door; the empty whiteness stared back at her. Scrupulously clean shelves. A stick of butter and a bottle of dressing on the door, a bag of coffee beans, three limes, and a liter of vodka. Yesterday’s paper carton of Thai takeout sat in splendid isolation on the top glass shelf. She opened the vegetable drawer and drew out the baby greens and avocado, the block of Parmesan and the quinoa she’d bought a few days ago. Hesitant to violate the oven with fat-splattering protein, she lived on salad now. And the occasional pizza Rory gave her when she slept over at his place.
She grated the Parmesan with a vegetable peeler, drizzled the greens with champagne vinaigrette, and cubed the avocado. The quinoa had currants in it. She opened a can of water-packed tuna and flaked it carefully with a fork over the salad, then rinsed the can so it wouldn’t smell in the trash and offend her father. Before she left the kitchen, she wiped the counter clean. Laney’s whole life was a tug-of-war between her mother’s rich appetites and her dad’s asceticism.
There was a light under his office door; working late again. No sound of keyboard or soft rumble of conversation, however. No TV. She grasped her metal bowl in one hand and padded in her slippers down the hall. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, she rapped her knuckles against the mahogany door. It was ajar. When he didn’t answer, she opened it slightly and inserted just the right half of her face into the room.
Her father was staring straight ahead, one arm of his reading glasses dangling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes shifted slowly to hers, but no expression crossed his face, no hint of welcome or even recognition. After a second, he said: “Sit down.”
She came around the door and slid quietly into the chair in front of his desk. She set her salad bowl on the floor beside her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Your aunt has been found dead in the Nantucket house and your grandfather is missing. Can you take a few days off?”
“From the studio? Of course, but—”
“Elliot has asked me to come. There will have to be a funeral.”
“For Grandpa Spence?” she stuttered, bewildered.
“For your aunt. Pack for three days. We’ll leave for Logan at eight a.m. Don’t oversleep.”
He rose from his desk and walked out of the room without another word.
Laney listened to him mount the stairs to the upper floor, the rooms she never entered now. Her heart was beating wildly. The smell of tuna drifted to her nostrils, bringing bile into her throat.
“What aunt?” she whispered.
Jodie Jameson stepped out the back service door of American Seasons and dipped his cigarette to the match flaring between his hands. Then he lifted his head and let a spiral of smoke drift into the night air. It had been humid earlier, the restaurant kitchen like a frantic sauna, all the line workers shining with sweat, but now there was a slight wind rippling through the streets of Nantucket. Jodie glimpsed a few stars. A few clouds scudded over the moon. The weather was shifting. It would be bright and clear tomorrow.
The restaurant had fronted Centre Street for decades, but here at the rear of the building, all was deep night, the darkness beneath sheltering tree branches, and relative quiet. Jodie was sous-chef at American Seasons. Regulars had booked their tables months ago for this first night of July Fourth weekend and he was feeling the effects of a long day. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time: twelve minutes past ten. Table service was done, but the bar would be open another two hours. His thirty-second break was over. He inhaled deeply and dropped his smoke beneath his kitchen clog.
Which was when the old man’s face suddenly loomed out of the trees, wavering as he shuffled toward Jodie. The cook squinted, peering beyond the back-door spotlight. “Can I help you?”
“The jungle’s too quiet. They’re waiting with their knives.” Spence Murphy held out his cigarette. “Gotta light, soldier?”
Chapter Six
Merry was drinking café au lait in Peter’s bed when Howie texted her the next morning. She was supposed to watch the Firecracker 5K—a July Fourth sprint along Monomoy for Peter and several hundred other early-risers. Forty-five minutes later she pulled up at Spencer Murphy’s house instead.
Andre Henrissaint met her at the door.
“He’s lying down in his room, but he’s not sleeping,” he said. “Elliot’s sitting with him.”
“He came home last night, I understand?”
“Around ten-thirty.” Andre shrugged slightly. “He turned up at American Seasons. They said he was hallucinating—reliving his escape from Laos, I think. He couldn’t remember how to get home, but he remembered this address, oddly enough. So they gave him
a drink and an order of duck breast to go, and put him in a taxi.”
“The mind is a strange thing.”
“Very. I say that, and I’m trained as a psychologist.”
“Have you told Mr. Murphy about his daughter?”
“Several times. He forgets.”
Merry followed Andre to Spence Murphy’s bedroom, which was on the main floor. More reason, she thought, that Nora’s body had gone undetected on the roof—once she disappeared and her room was tidied, neither her father nor his housekeeper had any reason to go upstairs. They resumed their habits of living among a few hundred square feet of the enormous old house: kitchen, bedroom, bath, and the small den Merry glimpsed through a doorway, lined with bookshelves and littered with photographs from Murphy’s reporting days. Nora had been undisturbed in her open-air tomb.
Andre paused in the doorway.
Spencer Murphy’s bedroom had once been something else—a sunporch in the 1950s, maybe—and only recently converted to a main-floor master bedroom as its owner’s balance and strength grew weaker. What had once been screened panels were now glass, lined with floor-to-ceiling drapes. French doors similar to the living room’s led out to the back deck. An adjoining powder room had been converted with a drop-in stall shower. There was a spectacular view of the harbor.
Elliot was seated in a wing chair near his father’s bed, a mug of coffee balanced on his knee. The look of bewildered strain Merry had last registered on his face was gone. He seemed placid this morning and, if anything, bored.
“He’s bringing Laney,” he was saying to his father. “Not Kate. Kate doesn’t live with them anymore.”
“Why not?” Spencer Murphy asked. He hadn’t seemed to notice Andre standing in the doorway.
“They’re divorced, Dad.”
“Since when?”
“A year ago. Remember—you knew this at Mom’s funeral. I’m putting Laney in Mom’s old sewing room.”
“Can’t she sleep with her parents? We could set up the crib.”
“Not at her age.”
“A cot, then. She’ll have nightmares if she’s alone.”
“Dad, she’s twenty-four years old. She doesn’t want to sleep with either of her parents.”
Elliot glanced in exasperation at the doorway, saw Merry behind Andre, and set down his mug. “Detective Folger. Good morning. He found his way home, as you can see.”
“Who did?” Spencer Murphy demanded. He lifted his chin pugnaciously. “That Negro doesn’t live here. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
There was a hideous silence. Merry felt her face flush with shock and embarrassment. She glanced at the man standing rigidly beside her. Then he turned and left.
“Andre—” Elliot surged after him. “Dad—”
“Go,” Merry murmured. “I’ll stay with your father.”
She walked over to the bedside and offered her hand to Spencer Murphy. “Good morning, sir. I’m Meredith Folger. With the Nantucket Police. I understand you got a little lost yesterday.”
He grasped her fingers politely. “Then you understand wrong, young lady. I was right here at home all day.”
“I see. We were a little worried, sir, because we found your car down on New Whale Street.”
The brown eyes, dimmed with the gray film of age, flickered slightly. “Must have left it there. I’ll pick it up later.”
“Yes, sir. How are you feeling this morning?”
“All right. How are you?”
“I’m well. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“If you like. But I’m usually the one that does the interview.”
“I know that, sir.” Merry took out her laptop and turned it on.
“I don’t use one of those things, though. Never have. Can’t type. Barbara does all my typing for me.”
Barbara, Merry remembered, was the dead wife’s name.
“She’s a little tired this morning and asked if I’d take notes,” she said.
“I don’t mind. What did you say your name was?”
“Folger. I’m with the Nantucket Police.”
“Ralph Folger runs the police.”
“He’s my grandfather, sir.”
“Grandfather! Not old enough to be a grandfather. He and Sylvie just have the one boy, yet.”
At the sound of her grandmother’s name, Merry felt her throat constrict.
“I understand your daughter, Nora, paid you a visit a few weeks ago,” she said.
“Nora?” Spence shrugged slightly. “Not here now. Haven’t seen Nora in a long time. Had some trouble with Barbara. Took off in a huff. Barbara says we shouldn’t worry—she’ll be back when she’s hungry. Kids that age always are. Say they’re running away, and they’re back by dinnertime.”
“Mr. Murphy, your daughter was staying here in the house a few weeks ago. Do you remember that? She sat outside on the back lawn with you and told you stories? Made you Asian food for dinner?”
“She had a way of doing street noodles, like her mother. Fish sauce and curry. Scallops instead of shrimp.”
“Sounds good.”
The filmy eyes flickered again. “Nora,” he said. “Talking about the old days in Laos. She got me smoking again. Do you have a light?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t. So you remember she was here?”
“I do.” He sat a little higher against his bed pillows, his voice suddenly firm. “We had some great talks. She’d been in Southeast Asia. Reporting there. None of the old fellas are still around, of course, but I told her what it was like when I was there. She’s part Lao, you know.”
The mind, Merry thought, was definitely weird. Spencer Murphy’s seemed to flash on and off like a Christmas bulb.
“We found Nora yesterday on the roof walk, Mr. Murphy. Your son Elliot told you that she seems to have died there?”
He closed his eyes, slowly and painfully. He drew a deep breath. “Yes. I remember. Yes.”
“Do you have any idea when she went up on the roof?”
“Every day,” he said.
“Every day?”
“It’s her place. She loves the roof.”
“Was she happy while she was here?”
“Of course! Nora loves the island. She’s going to stay. Wants to write a book.”
“When did you last see her, Mr. Murphy?”
He opened his eyes and looked straight at Merry. “Yesterday?” he asked. “This morning? She’s a big girl now. She comes and goes.”
Merry found Andre and Elliot in the kitchen. Elliot was rinsing dishes. Andre was pouring coffee beans into the top of an elaborate machine that seemed out of place in the old-fashioned galley. Neither was speaking.
“Was your father physically okay when he returned last night?” Merry asked.
“He was fine,” Elliot replied. “Exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. He had absolutely no idea where he’d been all day. He was babbling about jungles and knives. The old Pathet Lao story again.” He shook the water off a dish and placed it on the counter. Then he reached for a towel and dried his hands. “My brother, David, is due any minute. He’s Dad’s executor and power of attorney—we figured it had to be the kid who was physically closest to Nantucket. Dave can get here from Boston in an hour.”
“You informed him of Nora’s death?”
“Oh, yeah,” Elliot said. “But he’s really coming because of Dad. I mean, Nora’s dead and everything, but who knows when the coroner will release her body? You haven’t even flown it to Bourne yet, right?”
“I was waiting for your father to turn up,” Merry said. “I thought he might ask to see Nora.”
Elliot shook his head. “I don’t think he’s fully grasped that she’s dead. And I doubt he will, under the circumstances. You might ask David about that, once he’s here.”
&n
bsp; “Your father is certainly confused,” Merry said. “But his memory seems to shift in and out. He remembered Nora telling him about her reporting life, for instance, but couldn’t pinpoint the last time he saw her.”
“Does it matter?” Elliot asked. “We know which day she disappeared, from Roseline.”
“I was hoping Mr. Murphy could tell me something about Nora’s mood in her final days. Her plans, if she had any. This idea of moving in with him to write a book, for instance. His observations might help us figure out if she was unhappy enough to harm herself—or help us to rule that out.”
“Suicide.”
“Yes,” Merry agreed. “We’ll have a better idea what killed her once the coroner’s report is filed. But in the meantime—if your father happens to remember anything that you think might be relevant, Mr. Murphy, would you write it down?”
“Sure. I’ll let you know.”
“Would you like some coffee, Detective?” Andre asked.
“I’d love some,” Merry said gratefully. She leaned against the counter, watching his deft hands. He had beautiful fingers, long and tapering, with almond-shaped nails.
Andre reached for the bag of beans; almost empty. “I brought this from New York, but we’ve gone through it quickly. Late nights and early mornings will do that.”
“There should be more in the cupboard,” Elliot suggested. “Not Dad’s percolator stuff, but the beans David got when he gave him the machine.”
“You didn’t bring that from New York, too?” Merry asked.
“No. It was a Christmas gift. David likes to give people things he wants to use himself. He hates Dad’s percolator. Dad, of course, has never learned to use David’s machine, which automatically grinds the beans. Dave’s a little obsessed with coffee.”
“I get it.”
“In cases of dementia,” Andre said, “one of the first cognitive skills to wane is mastery of the new. Spence was never going to use this machine. But kudos to Dave for trying.”
Death of a Wharf Rat Page 5
