by Barbara Ross
“I heard the cops have Chris Durand back for a second round of questioning today. He’s been there at least a couple hours.”
Why did I bristle at that? Was Sonny implying if the police were questioning Chris, they’d end up arresting him and our troubles would soon be over? If that was what he meant, he probably would have just said it. Sonny was not a subtle guy. I wasn’t surprised he knew Chris was at the police station. In Busman’s Harbor, at times it felt like everybody knew everything.
“I think Chris is being interviewed because he was the last person in Busman’s Harbor to see Ray Wilson alive,” I said. “Turns out, Ray and Tony grew up in Bath.”
“Really?” Sonny clearly understood what that meant. Maybe nobody from the harbor was involved.
“Yup. Tony told me himself this morning.”
Sonny climbed down off the ladder with the heavy window in his hands. “Still doesn’t answer the question why the body was left like that.”
“I know. That bothers me, too.” Neither of us had the answer, so I said, “Let me go upstairs to my office and check the reservation system. Then I’ll come back and help carry these windows into the garage.”
“Jul-ya!”
I was still in my office, going through tomorrow’s reservations, adding up the money we’d flush down the drain if the cops didn’t let us open. I’d called Jamie at the station house on the hope he was back from Morrow Island. The woman at the desk told me he wasn’t around.
“Jul-ya, state cops are here for you!” Sonny was still out on the front lawn and evidently felt no hesitation about announcing it to the whole harbor.
“I’ll be right down.”
Lieutenant Binder and Detective Flynn stood on my mother’s front porch. Sonny had finished taking the windows down and was humping them to the garage.
I led Binder and Flynn to a corner of the porch and sat them on the wicker furniture. Binder looked more tired than yesterday. The creases around his deep-set brown eyes were more pronounced, and he sat down heavily on the settee. Flynn, though considerably younger, didn’t look much better. He was slightly stooped as though it was tough to carry his bodybuilder muscles. Both were dressed in dark slacks, white shirts, sports jackets, and boring ties. They had on ugly cop shoes, and I could tell just by looking that Detective Flynn had been out on Morrow Island while Binder had stayed in town. Flynn had a tiny patch of wet sand clinging to the top of the rubber sole of his right shoe where it met the leather upper.
“I thought you’d call me down to the station when you were ready for me.”
“We needed the walk,” Binder said.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks.” He hesitated. “Unless you want some.” I didn’t, but they looked like they could use an afternoon pick-me-up, so I went to the kitchen and brewed a pot. My mother always had some store-bought cookies around “for Page,” as she said, as if the nine-year-old in our lives was the only one who ate them. I put a plate of cookies next to the coffee mugs on a tray.
“Thanks,” Binder said when I returned to the porch.
“No problem. What else can I do for you?”
“You can take us through yesterday. Again,” Flynn answered.
So I did.
Their questions were more specific. They’d obviously gathered a lot of information since our interview the day before. Did the bride seem hungover or maybe even still drunk? The groom? Any of the attendants?
I answered honestly. “No.”
I was aware of Sonny down on the lawn. I couldn’t see him, but caught glimpses of the tops of window frames gliding past as he went back and forth to the garage. I was sure he was eavesdropping, though he, like the cops, had heard it all before.
“I know this is difficult, Ms. Snowden. But before you opened the door to Windsholme did anyone, anyone at all, give you the slightest indication they knew what was behind it?”
I replayed the horrible discovery in my mind. “No one.”
“Well, you let us know if you remember anything else.” Binder switched subjects. “I understand Christopher Durand worked on the island this spring.” I nodded and he continued. “What did he do for you there?”
“I wasn’t on the island everyday. Etienne Martineau or my brother-in-law Sonny Ramsey can be more specific, but generally . . .” I went through the litany of opening-up chores—clearing brush, raking the beach, repairing winter damage to the buildings and dock, bringing out the picnic tables and other furniture. It was three weeks worth of hard work for three men. “He also painted a couple rooms for me in Windsholme because I was getting ready for this wedding.”
“Did anyone else work on the island this spring? Or maybe last fall?”
“The electricians.” I’d forgotten all about them. “I changed the service and had two rooms at Windsholme rewired in May.” I gave the names of the father and son who did the work. Flynn wrote down the information. “Do you think they could have something to do with Ray’s murder?” I couldn’t imagine what. They lived two towns up the coast, in the opposite direction of Ray’s hometown.
“Just covering our bases,” Flynn answered.
“Can I ask, did you find anything on the island today?”
The corners of Binder’s mouth turned up in amusement. “That’s a pretty broad question.”
“Like a boat? Did you figure out how Ray Wilson got to my island?” Now that I knew Ray was from somewhere nearby and could have gotten himself to the island, I wanted to know how he’d done it.
Binder’s smile faded. “We didn’t find a boat. But I don’t think that’s meaningful. Wilson could’ve arrived on the island with his killer, who then left with the boat. Or Wilson and his killer could have come to the island in separate boats and Wilson’s was carried out by the tide later. We won’t know with certainty whether Wilson was even alive when he arrived on the island until we get the medical examiner’s full report tomorrow.”
I tried to picture a killer carrying Ray’s body up the long, steep path from the beach to Windsholme. It seemed impossible. It would require two killers. Maybe three. Gangs of marauding murders on Morrow Island? It was too terrible to think about. “You should check Westclaw Point for the boat. There’s a little inlet almost directly across from the island.” That’s where the inflatable balls, tubes, and rafts Livvie and I lost off our little beach when we were children always ended up. Eventually. “Did anyone report a boat stolen?”
“No, but it’s early in the season. Lots of people aren’t here yet. We’re checking as best we can, but it will take time. The killer could have gone to the island in his own boat.” Binder shifted forward in his seat and put his hands on his knees. “We do have some news. The crime scene team is done on your island. You can open tomorrow.”
I practically jumped out of my seat. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?” My mind raced forward. I had to let the staff know, buy the food, check the boat.
“Because we knew the moment we told you, you wouldn’t be able to pay attention to anything else.” He smiled his crinkly-eyed smile. “You can use the island for your clambakes, but please, keep everybody out of the mansion. We have it secured. Windsholme is still an active crime scene.”
“Of course. Don’t worry. I’m just so relieved. So you think the murder happening on the island was just random? Why was his body left there?”
“Think about it,” Lieutenant Binder said. “Seeing that body had a powerful effect on more than just you.”
Michaela. Of course. How could I have been so self-absorbed? She was the most hurt by seeing Ray hanging at Windsholme on her wedding day. And the maid of honor had dropped those not so subtle hints that Michaela and Ray were close. Too close. That could explain why Ray’s body was left for Michaela to find.
“Thank you, Lieutenant for telling me this. It’s a huge relief.” It all made so much more sense. Tony and Ray were from Bath. Ray’s body was hung up at Windsholme to send a message to Michaela on her wedding day. It was an unspeakably
awful thing to do and I couldn’t imagine why anyone had done it. But it had nothing to do with us.
“Thank you, so so much. You don’t know what this means.”
Binder grinned. “Oh, I think we do. Your friend, young Officer Dawes made sure we did.”
Sonny and I stood on the porch and watched the retreating backs of Binder and Flynn as they walked down the hill.
“Did you hear all that?”
“Most of it. Seems like they’re looking at Ray Wilson’s life.”
“And Michaela’s.” My eyes fell on a thick newspaper, neatly folded, sitting on a side table. “What’s that?”
“I forgot to tell you. Quentin Tupper III dropped it off for you. Said he was driving back to New York tonight and didn’t want to ‘schlep’ it. He said he thought you’d appreciate it.”
Quentin Tupper from Gus’s this morning? It seemed like an odd thing to do. He didn’t know where I lived. I hadn’t even told him my last name. Of course, he could have asked pretty much anyone in town. Lots of people knew who I was and everybody knew the Snowden house.
Nothing sounded better than curling up on the porch swing with the Sunday New York Times. But I had a lot of work to get done if we were putting on a clambake tomorrow.
Chapter 14
I worked at my desk well into the evening to make sure everything was set for the clambake the next day. The sounds of Mom banging around in the kitchen traveled up the back stairs.
“Come down and eat,” she called.
“Eat what?” I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice. I realized I hadn’t eaten since my early breakfast at Gus’s.
“Leftover mac and cheese.”
Thank goodness. Not something my mother had concocted. I felt terrible that I hated my own mother’s cooking, but there it was. I knew it wasn’t her fault. Goodness knows, she had tried.
Her mother died when she was young and Mom grew up in an all male household that included her father and a distant cousin. My grandfather didn’t cook at all. When he had visited our house, he never crossed the kitchen threshold, expecting to be served his meals—even the bowl of cold cereal he always ate for breakfast—in the dining room. As far as I could tell, there’d been no beloved, long-term housekeeper/mother substitute in Mom’s life, just a string of Gerta-Colleen-Consuela-Brigittes who were rarely mentioned and who had left, at best, erratic marks on my mother’s culinary skills.
Mom had tried to teach herself to cook. Alone in her kitchen, she attempted to reconstruct half-remembered meals prepared by the Gerta-Colleen-Consuela-Brigitte contingent. Her desire to be the supportive helpmate she imagined Dad expected matched his desire to provide the material comforts he thought she needed. But she never did get the hang of it. It didn’t help that our little grocery store in those days had such limited stock, especially in the winter. My mother had no compunctions about substituting tomato soup or catsup for salsa, or mayonnaise for hollandaise. The results were dreadful.
It was one of the great ironies of our lives that in summer, fed by the clambake and by Gabrielle’s sumptuous cooking, we ate like kings. And then we suffered all winter long.
For years, led by my father’s dutiful example, we ate, or at least pushed the food around on our plates, and didn’t complain too much—until Livvie rebelled, as she did in all things. But in this case, her rebellion was constructive. She spent time in our neighbors’ kitchens, learning their best dishes. She spent hours with Gabrielle. And we were saved from starvation.
I finished up my work and went down to join my mother at the kitchen table.
“The clambake’s running tomorrow,” I said brightly when she’d put the food in front of us. Too brightly? All spring, Sonny and I had been careful about what we said to Mom. Of course, she knew I was home to help with the clambake because it was in financial difficulty. But we’d never given her the details, never told her how close to the edge we were. And she never asked. We didn’t want her to worry and I thought she really preferred not to know.
“First day of the season,” I continued. “Why don’t you come?” My mother, who’d spent the first fifty summers of her life on Morrow Island, had not set foot on it since the day my Dad’s cancer was diagnosed. I knew she loved the island, and I thought it would help her to go there and face whatever it was that kept her away. “C’mon,” I urged. “I’m sure Gabrielle would love to see you.”
It was a mild play on my mother’s feelings of obligation, though I didn’t push it and say, “I’m sure Gabrielle would love to see you because she’s been traumatized by the murder on the island.” I had no wish to remind Mom about the murder, though I doubted it was far from her mind.
She and Gabrielle were as close as my mother’s WASPy reserve and Gabrielle’s natural shyness allowed. Their husbands had been best friends and Jean-Jacques, Livvie, and I were all close in age. I know Mom cherished having another woman, another mother, living with us on the island when we were young.
But then life got complicated. Jean-Jacques disappeared and less than a year later my father died. Gabrielle reacted to her tragedy by spending as much time on the island as possible. My mother reacted by never setting foot on Morrow Island again. Grief drove them to separate corners.
I thought it would do my mother good to see her friend again. Especially now that her best friend, my father, was gone. I wanted Mom to be happy. To heal. To go to the island. But I knew she wouldn’t.
“Maybe later in the summer,” she said. “Give Gabrielle my love.”
We ate the rest of the meal in silence. Though my mother couldn’t cook, she’d nurtured Livvie and me in so many other ways. My parents’ marriage was a great love story, but it wasn’t the kind of relationship that crowded everyone else out. Livvie and I always had my mother’s complete attention and support. And though she could seem standoffish with others, within the family she was warm and loving, the stable support that balanced my father’s work-hard, play-hard personality. My dad was the builder; my mother the quiet foundation on which all was built. Even five years after his death, she still seemed lost.
We cleaned the few dishes like the practiced team we were. My mother went off to the little sitting room off her bedroom to watch television and I returned to my office.
As I entered the room, my eye fell on the Times dropped off by Quentin Tupper for reasons I didn’t understand.
I pulled out the Sunday Styles section, my favorite part of the paper. “The single woman’s sports pages,” Carrie Bradshaw had called it. I opened it, ready to savor the Vows and Modern Love columns. I noticed the corner of one of the pages was dog-eared. Turning to the page, I saw a photo of Michaela and Tony, their perfect eyebrows aimed directly at the camera. The article beneath the photo said:
MICHAELA CARPENTER, TONY POITRAS
Michaela Joan Carpenter and Anthony Robert Poitras were married Saturday on Morrow Island in Busman’s Harbor, Maine.
Ms. Carpenter, 30, is an assistant buyer at Saks Fifth Avenue. She graduated from SUNY Binghamton. She is the daughter of Elizabeth Carpenter and the late Giles Carpenter.
Mr. Poitras, 35, is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts. He is a partner in the firm of Poitras and Wilson. He is the son of Flora and Edward Poitras of Bath, Maine, and Fort Myers, Florida.
Reading the wedding notice submitted to the paper weeks before made me sad. Sad about Michaela and Tony’s ruined wedding day. Sad that whenever someone typed Morrow Island and wedding into a search engine, they’d get dozens of news articles about the murder before they’d get to this happy announcement.
I wondered about Quentin Tupper, the stranger who’d gone out of his way to leave me the newspaper. Had he turned down the corner on the page so I wouldn’t miss the wedding announcement? There was no other explanation. It seemed a little mean. Why would someone I’d never met before want to taunt me?
Chapter 15
By the next morning, as I walked to the town dock, I was feeling pretty good about the world. A ful
l night’s sleep will do that for you. Yes, a horrendous thing had happened on Morrow Island, but the police had let us open the clambake. Reservations were strong and the weather was perfect. It was Opening Day.
Just before I arrived at our ticket booth, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the pocket of my sweatshirt and stared at the display. Damn. It was Robert Forman Ditzy, our banker. Ugh. I’d been hoping to avoid him. I hit the TALK button. “Hello.”
“Julia. Bob Ditzy.”
“Hi Bob. How are you?”
“Actually, I’m calling to see how you are. I heard you had a tragedy there at the clambake.”
I rushed to reassure him. “Yes. But the police have cleared us to open and we’re full for both lunch and dinner.”
“Good. Good. Because I don’t think I need to remind you, Julia, it’s going to take every cent you can earn to dig out of the hole you’re in. As you know, the business plan you gave us when we renegotiated your loan the last time allowed for only five closed days during the season. Every day you’re shut down makes it that much harder. At some point we approach mathematical impossibility that you’ll be current on your loan by the end of the summer.”
A warm flush rose from the base of my neck. Nobody knew those figures better than I did. What was he talking about, anyway? It was only the second day of the season and Tony and Michaela’s wedding reception had never been included in the figures I’d given the bank.
“We’ve been closed exactly one day. You can’t blame us for what happened.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I could hear the slight vibrato that meant I wasn’t being entirely successful.
“It’s not a question of blame, Julia. It’s not your fault when there’s a nor’easter and you lose three days to stormy weather. And it’s not your fault when lobster hits six dollars a pound wholesale. And I’m sure this . . . this . . . death . . . is not your fault, either.”
