A Month at the Shore

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "What do you think?" said her brother with a wry face. "Man, with a name like that around here," he added, "I may as well just check myself into the MCI."

  He took a long slug of his number-four Coors and said under his breath, "Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars."

  There he went, feeling sorry for himself. "Well, if you feel that way," Laura snapped, "then why not just turn yourself in and get it over with?"

  "Laura!"

  "Oh, please don't 'Laura' me," she said tiredly to her sister. "You know I didn't mean it."

  To her brother, she said, "But for God's sake, Snack—do you have to be so defeatist about everything? And Corinne—you of all people! Where's your optimism when we need it?"

  "Well, I'm just saying—"

  She was interrupted by loud knocking on the front door at the other end of the house. All of them jumped, but it was Laura who said, "I'll get it. You two stay put."

  She opened the door to see two men, one of them a twenty-something guy dressed in khakis and an olive-green shirt, the other a jeans-clad cameraman. Hell and damnation, more media.

  "Hi. Bret Evanston from News at Ten," the one said, introducing himself in front of the rolling camera. He stuck a microphone in front of her face and said, "Do you have any idea who's buried there?"

  Laura said coolly, "No—as I've already told your competitor, Channel whatever it was. Who, by the way, have come and gone. What took you so long?"

  Let him run that quote if he liked, damn it. She closed the door on him as he turned to the camera, undoubtedly to say that the family was being uncooperative.

  How she hated this. If there was anything worse than being an object of derision, it was being an object of curiosity. Too restless and annoyed to rejoin her gloomy siblings, Laura wandered off into the never-used dining room, which had a direct view of the ongoing investigation. Several state investigators—where had they found them on such short notice?—were still there, digging and sifting like kids at the shore. So to speak.

  What would happen to Shore Gardens now? They'd already been told that they couldn't use the dump truck or the John Deere or the compost—obviously—from either the original site or the relocated one. Most of the nursery would be off limits not only to customers but to them as well. They'd be able to reopen the main shop in the next couple of days (that was a courtesy) but what good was an open shop if they couldn't get anything brought down to it?

  Not that it mattered. Who was going to buy anything from them now, anyway?

  Stop. Just stop. You sound like Snack.

  She stared at the bright yellow Do Not Cross tape that seemed to be growing by the mile and thought how completely ironic it was that Snack had managed to move all of the compost except the little pile that mattered most. If she and Corinne had not constantly distracted him from finishing the job he was trying so hard to do, Snack might have managed to move all of it to the back of the nursery without anyone, including Baskerville, ever noticing the bones.

  And the sale would go on.

  And the Shore name would be restored.

  And Corinne would marry Gabe.

  And Snack would run the nursery.

  And Laura would not be second-guessing the man who had called Chief Mellon on his cell phone just minutes after discovering the bones.

  Ken had to call the police, Laura realized. Of course he had to call. But if he had waited until after the sale, would that have been so unforgivable?

  She sighed. Definitely, it would have been unforgivable.

  Probably.

  She stared through parted curtains at the somber scene that was playing itself out in their back yard, all according to well-defined procedure. Her sense of paralysis was profound. Laura was a doer, and for the moment—now that they'd given their simple, initial statements to the police—there was nothing to do except wait.

  ****

  Chief Mellon wasn't as mean as Laura had feared, nor as kind as she had wished. He was depressingly noncommittal. He knocked politely on their screen door and, seeing them inside at the kitchen table, let himself in. He was a big man, six-three or -four, and deeply tanned. He loved to fish, Corinne had already told Laura, and he spent every free hour on the water, often with his young twin daughters.

  He said, "We're done photographing the scene, and at this point we've started to recover the skeletal remains, which seem to be fairly undisturbed—except of course for the dog's activity. The long daylight will help speed the process: the men will keep at it until dark and then be back tomorrow at daybreak. At the moment, we are treating this as a death investigation. If the medical examiner can determine the manner and cause of death, that could change."

  "To what?" asked Corinne, looking blank.

  "To a homicide investigation." He added quietly, "It would be best if you confined your comings and goings to the house for now. We'll move the investigation along as expeditiously as we can; I know you're concerned about being closed down this week, and if we can avoid that, we will."

  "Can you tell yet what he—she?—died of?" asked Laura.

  The chief shook his head.

  "We're assuming, not old age," said Snack, staring at the can of beer he was clutching. He began lifting and dropping it in a rhythmic beat on the enameled metal tabletop, broadcasting his displeasure at being there.

  Oh, great. The beer was kicking in. Laura tried to give her brother a warning look, but he refused to acknowledge it. She saw the muscles in his jaw clench and unclench. He was working up a head of steam, all right.

  Corinne took a deep, shuddering breath, apparently to build up her courage, and then blurted, "How long have the bones been there? Can you tell? Couldn't they be ancient? Couldn't that be an uncovered Indian burial ground?"

  The chief seemed surprised by the question, but he answered it. "Decomposition rates vary. Although we don't know yet whether the site is a primary or secondary scene, the medical examiner tells me the compost pile is an optimum environment for accelerating the process of decay—but, then, you folks are aware of that, I'm sure."

  Was that an insinuating tone? Laura tried not to be paranoid about his perfectly reasonable assumption, given that they had been raised in a nursery.

  She said, "You mentioned that we'd have our store back in a couple of days. Do you have any idea when we'll have access to the stock in and outside of our greenhouses? The store's not much good without anything to put in it."

  Try as she might, she couldn't keep the resentment out of her voice. The chief picked up on it, and he answered her in a tone that was equally cool. "Like I said, we'll move as quick as we can, Miss Shore."

  Snack's answer to that was a snort. Corinne's eyes got wide; she looked as if she wanted to knock Snack's and Laura's heads together in an effort to make them behave.

  "And in the meanwhile, I understand you two are staying on for a few weeks?" the chief said, his glance sweeping from Laura to Snack. "Is that right?"

  "Only if the crick don't rise," Snack muttered ominously.

  "Not a few weeks, Chief Mellon," Laura corrected. "I have contractual obligations back in Portland before then." She couldn't bear to look at her sister and see the dismay in her face, so she got up and began clearing the table of its tea things.

  "Well, the search of the premises shouldn't take that long," he said. "And as for the interviews, I think we'll be able to wrap them up soon."

  "Oh, go-o-od," said Snack, exaggerating his joy. He was being his most provocative. The wonder of Snack was that he wasn't still locked up in somebody's jail merely on principle.

  "You'll be around," said the chief with an even look. It wasn't a question, or even a confirmation. It was an order.

  Snack didn't take orders very well. Laura jumped in before her brother decided to invite the chief outside for a knuckle sandwich. "Your car's parked out front, Chief Mellon," she said. "It would be quicker for you if I take you through the house to the other door."

  "T
hat's all right; I know the way through."

  And he did too: Corinne had told Laura that he'd been to the house several times over the years, following up on a variety of complaints by people in town—just like his father before him, no doubt.

  Laura tagged along behind him anyway, mostly to watch his back.

  At the door, she couldn't resist asking point-blank, "Can you tell us if it's a man or a woman?"

  "That will all come out in due time," he said. "Good night."

  Laura responded with a cursory nod; she was distracted by the black Porsche that had passed the shop and was on its way to the house.

  Kendall Barclay pulled up in time to have an exchange with the departing chief. Laura watched from the doorway as the two men shrugged and frowned and nodded and did all those things that men seemed to prefer to actual speech.

  The chief left, and Ken took the front steps in twos. Despite the gravity of the day and despite her on-and-off dismay that he had been the one who'd made the discovery, suddenly all Laura could think of was the fact that her hair was limp and her lipstick worn off.

  "You're back," she said, feeling a surge of unexpected relief.

  "Where else would I go?"

  "Well ... you have a bank to run," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

  "We're talking about Chepaquit Savings, not Chase Manhattan," he said, smiling. "And besides, I wanted to take the three of you to dinner. My guess is that Corinne's not much in the mood for slaving over a hot stove tonight."

  It was such a vote of confidence in them, such a boost to her sagging morale, that Laura had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him in clinging gratitude.

  "Thanks for the offer," she said warmly. "But I doubt that anyone's hungry. It's been a helluva day."

  "All the more reason. C'mon, let's go ask 'em."

  Without waiting for her to demur, he led the way to the kitchen, looking as at home as if he'd been coming over to play pinochle on Friday nights for years. Snack was at the table—still nursing beer number four, thank God—and Corinne was standing at the opened fridge and staring blankly into it. Neither of them was speaking.

  "Hey," Ken said cheerfully. "We're going to town for Chinese. Care to join us?"

  Snack pulled back his chin in surprise. "Chepaquit doesn't have a Chinese restaurant."

  "It's International Night at Captain Jack's. Yankee Szechuan."

  "Uh, I'll pass. Thanks."

  "Corinne?"

  "Oh. Tonight?"

  Of all nights. Too shy to be on display in a restaurant in the best of times, Corinne didn't look all that eager to answer casual inquiries just then about the body in her compost pile.

  Tonight, in short, was the worst of times.

  "That's really nice of you to offer, but ... you know, I think I'll just heat up a can of soup. But thanks. Really, thanks," she added with a limp smile.

  Ken took the dual turndowns in stride. "Okay. But keep your dance cards free for Hungarian Night next week. The goulash is not to be missed," he said amiably. "Meanwhile, we'll bring you guys back some takeout, in case you get a yen later."

  He shepherded Laura out of the kitchen and toward the front door. In the parlor, he stroked her cheek lightly and said, "Of course, you understand that this is all by design, to get you alone for a while."

  Sizzling under his touch, she murmured, "And here I thought you were just trying to be nice."

  "I am nice. You're going to find out just how nice."

  "Can I comb my hair? Get my bag?"

  "You're perfect the way you are."

  Her heart was pumping hard, and for so many reasons. I'm the niece of a killer, she wanted to whisper in his ear. Maybe a serial killer. How perfect is that?

  Out the door they went, and into his shiny car. He held the door for her, shut it after her, turned off the blaring radio for her, did all the things that a proper gentleman does on a first date.

  Except it wasn't a date, it was a rescue.

  Chapter 18

  "Basically, you wanted to save us from ourselves, didn't you?" Laura said.

  She leaned back on the glove-soft leather headrest, closed her eyes, and tried to blot out the day: the good, the bad ... the ugly.

  No luck. "If you could have seen us huddled around the kitchen table just now," she said, because she had to talk about it, after all. "God, we were pathetic. I think we were expecting them to bring out the rubber hoses and beat a confession out of one of us."

  "What is it with you guys?" Ken asked. He sounded genuinely bewildered. "Where's your confidence?"

  "Easy for you to say. Tell me this. Has your family ever been hit by a scandal?"

  "My mother stole my mail and forged my signature once," he said, smiling.

  "I mean, a real scandal."

  "You hated me for twenty years. I call that scandalous."

  "Ken. I mean where people looked down at you wherever you went, as if you were lower than low."

  "Now, see, I don't get that. Why would any of you feel that people were looking down on you?"

  "Hello—because they were? My father didn't exactly cut an admirable figure around town," she said. "And let's not forget: he was the kinder, gentler brother."

  Ken acknowledged her claim with a wry smile as he took the turn onto Main, a two-lane road that divided Chepaquit into waterview properties and affordable ones.

  Laura said wistfully, "I wish I could be different. I wish I could have the confidence of someone like you—or even like Sylvia. I don't suppose you knew her."

  "Name doesn't ring a bell," Ken admitted.

  "If you'd ever seen her, you'd remember her. She worked for us for a little while. She wasn't local; she was from up north. But she had this ... this fearlessness about people that had Corinne and me in awe. She was our hero."

  "I think what you did with your own life is pretty heroic. You followed your star—"

  "Hardly," Laura said with a snort. "What I did was run away from Chepaquit as fast as I could."

  "Well, all I can say is, that Uncle Norbert of yours must have been a piece of work—not only for what he did to his wife, but for what he did to you all," Ken muttered. "What a hell of a legacy he left you."

  She twitched one shoulder in the barest of shrugs. "My father contributed his fair share," she insisted, because that was part of the legacy too. "He also had a temper, and he wasn't shy about using it on anyone near."

  Her thoughts rocketed back to an innocent afternoon when Sylvia returned from making a delivery. She could see her father so clearly, his face red with anger, his voice raw with fury.

  Where were you? I don't want you drivin' off doing deliveries. My daughters can do that. Billy can do that. Not you.

  Since when?

  Since now.

  But you hired me to—

  You heard me. You don't leave the premises! You stay right here!

  Laughing, Sylvia had said, You're my boss, not my master.

  And she had flipped him a finger before turning her back on him and going back to work. Laura had watched in astonishment. No one had ever—ever—stood up to her father that way.

  Distressed by the memory, she lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  After a moment, she rolled her head toward Ken and said, "How did it go with your mother, by the way? Dare I ask?"

  "Ask away; I have nothing to relate, I'm afraid. A close friend of hers was taken seriously ill and ended up at Mass General, which is where my mother spent the evening and much of the night. Needless to say, my tantrum had to be postponed."

  "I'm so sorry," she said, smiling, and added, "I think I'd pay good money to watch you throw a tantrum sometime."

  "I'd have to practice first," he confessed. "I've never really done one, despite the fact that I was an only child for years before my sister was born. I guess I don't consider myself spoiled, although I haven't exactly been deprived."

  "It sounds as if your parents got it about right. I'm jealous," she admitted.

>   "And meantime, you're telling me that my parents weren't the thing that drove you away?"

  "Not really."

  "Huh. One less reason to throw that fit, darn it," he said as he squeezed into the last parking space in front of the restaurant.

  Captain Jack's was a quintessential small-town New England eatery, a two-story Victorian house with big square windows split in four on both sides of the door. The place was painted a pleasing shade of slate blue and trimmed in ivory. Its handmade hanging sign was the most ostentatious thing about it: "Captain Jack's" was carved deep into the wood and finished in gold leaf over a relief of a fouled anchor.

  "Didn't this used to be a hardware store?" Laura asked as they walked up to the double-doored entry.

  "Not for at least ten years. You don't come into town on your visits much, do you?"

  "Never, if I can help it."

  The restaurant was crowded, which wasn't surprising; it was one of the few in town. The old wood floors from the hardware store were still intact but were varnished now instead of scraped bare as Laura remembered them; they glowed like spilled honey in the late sun that poured through the shuttered lower half of the windows. A dozen tables were arranged in cozy proximity. At the back was a small bar and a take-out register. It was all very casual, all very nice.

  All very awkward, when conversations stopped after Laura and Ken stepped inside. It was obvious that everyone had heard about the bones in the compost pile.

  Laura was prepared for their stares and murmurs; it was just like old times. What she wasn't prepared for was the sight of Will Burton, sitting at a table with three other men.

  Will Burton.

  Unlike Ken, he had hardly changed over the years. He had the same blond hair, the same hawk nose, the same air of cockiness that Laura had once found intimidating. The red-haired guy with his back to her had to be Dagger, Will's younger brother. The other two men could have been just about anyone; Will had always moved with an entourage.

  Suddenly Laura was thrown back into the woods again, clutching her torn clothes, and with tears streaming down her face. Her heart was knocking as hard as it had those decades ago, and her crushing need, now as then, was to turn and run.