Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

by Lanyon, Josh

  Finn had not talked to anyone that night. He had packed his things, and he had left the following morning. You couldn’t really run away at twenty-three, but that had been what it felt like. He said, “Martha had gone to Harpswell. Her sister was ill.”

  Uncle Thomas nodded, considering, and then he went back to eating his supper.

  Finn ate slowly. The food was good. He mostly didn’t think about food, and he was surprised to find he was hungry. But as he swallowed the last bites of golden, flaky pastry, he couldn’t help thinking that there was something strangely apathetic in everyone’s reaction—lack of reaction—to Fitch’s disappearance.

  Disappearance.

  Because that’s what it was. Fitch had disappeared. He had fallen off the face of the earth. And no one had noticed.

  Even now no one seemed to be noticing—even when Finn was pointing it out.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he began, and Uncle Thomas reluctantly refocused on him. “I think maybe something happened to Fitch.”

  There. It was out.

  “Happened to him?” Uncle Thomas sounded doubtful, eyeing Finn over the tops of his reading glasses.

  “When he left the island the last time.” That sounded too portentous. “When he left three years ago.”

  His uncle waited politely.

  “It’s not only that he never contacted me, he never contacted anyone that I know of. We traveled in the same circles.”

  “Fitch wasn’t an artist.” It was said bluntly, dismissingly. Considering that tone, Finn understood that maybe Fitch hadn’t been everyone’s favorite. Perhaps some of those careless jabs about teachers and critics had found their mark and left their wounds. Or perhaps the jabs had been in retaliation to a perceived rejection?

  Finn said, “He wasn’t a painter, but he still traveled in art circles. We knew all the same people, shared a lot of the same friends.” They went to the same shows, the same bars, knew the same people—the Manhattan art scene was a small one, especially in the rarefied stratosphere the Barrets traveled in.

  Uncle Thomas said slowly, clearly treading with the greatest care, “It’s possible he’d have tried to stay out of your way.”

  “More than possible. At first.” Finn’s smile was crooked. “But Fitch, being Fitch, would have got over it, and he’d have expected me to do the same. He’d have arranged to bump into me at some public gathering I couldn’t escape from.”

  Uncle Thomas looked unconvinced. “Maybe he knew this time was…different.”

  Finn absorbed the fact that his uncle seemed to be well versed regarding his relationship with Con—including the sordid end of it. Not only was Uncle Thomas aware of it, it didn’t appear to have unduly shocked him. Granted, he’d had three years to get over the shock.

  “Maybe,” Finn agreed. “I never talked to anyone about what happened, yet no one ever mentioned him to me—other than to ask how he was or what he was doing.”

  Uncle Thomas still didn’t seem to get it.

  Finn tried to articulate his uneasy instinct. It was difficult, because until he struggled to put it into words, he wasn’t sure himself what was bothering him so much. “Fitch couldn’t have made it to Manhattan, because no one ever mentioned him again unless it was to ask me how he was doing. Someone would have said something in passing. He wasn’t—isn’t—somebody you could ignore very easily.”

  Wasn’t? He listened to the echo of that word in something very like alarm. Wasn’t?

  “Perhaps he thought it would be wiser starting over elsewhere.”

  “I guess that’s the way it could have happened,” Finn said slowly, unconvinced. “It’s just that he was a creature of habit.”

  “Bad habits,” Uncle Thomas said grimly, and that seemed to be the end of that conversation.

  * * * * *

  Upstairs in his room much later that night, Finn found himself going through his old books looking for something to read, something nonnarcotic to put him asleep, turning to the comfort of vaguely recalled childhood favorites. He was flipping through Verne’s Mysterious Island—mostly studying his grandfather’s illustrations—when a snapshot fell out of the yellowed pages.

  Con at age twenty or so. A reluctant smile curved Finn’s mouth as he appraised the shy arrogance of the boy staring directly into the camera lens. Bold, dark eyes watched from beneath the soft blond forelock. Elegant bone structure: a hard jaw, a proud nose, but an unexpectedly sensitive mouth. They had called him The Prince. He called them—when he deigned to notice them at all (eleven years was a big gap at that age) the Gruesome Twosome. Which pleased them inordinately.

  Finn and Fitch had always pretended to not think much of him, and Fitch had gone out of his way to be frankly offensive on more than one occasion, but the fact was, they both had frightful crushes on Con. Granted, he was very good-looking, like the prince in a fairy tale or a romance novel—a living, breathing embodiment of the kind of man their grandfather had painted into his illustrations. In fact, looking back, Finn realized that Grandy had probably used a few earlier models of Carlyles for inspiration. Well, why not? Those dark and luminous eyes, the noble brows and arrogant noses and stubborn chins—and those mouths…oh those beautiful mouths.

  Studying the old photo, it surprised Finn that he had never wanted to paint Con. Or had he wanted to but never dared ask? It was difficult to say. He had been so terrifyingly, overwhelmingly in love with Con. Terrifying because he knew even then it could not possibly last, so he had simply snatched at every day, every moment with Con as though it were his last.

  But now, looking at the photographed face, he was sorry he had not painted him. Sorry he had not captured the play of light and shadows on that beautiful young face. Once again he felt the yearning to start work again. When he felt a little stronger. Because, as much as he wanted to tackle the work once more, he was afraid. Afraid because it had nearly been lost to him—and maybe it was supposed to be lost.

  Maybe it wasn’t coming back.

  * * * * *

  Paul arrived in time for lunch the following day, Tuesday. Finn drove down to the wharf with Hiram, and while the old man piled Paul’s suitcases—way too many suitcases for a four-day stay—into the station wagon, Finn trailed uncomfortably after Paul, who wanted to see “the village.”

  “It’s not really a village village,” Finn tried to explain while Paul tripped along from general store to post office to pub.

  “If it has a pub and a post office, it’s a village,” Paul said, shoving open the green door of Wylie’s Tavern. “Let’s get a drink. I’m parched.”

  “We should probably get up to the house. Martha will be waiting with lunch.”

  “No way am I getting into a car with my tummy feeling the way it feels now,” Paul warned, heading for one of the battered wooden booths against the wall.

  A couple of fisherman types turned from the bar to give him a long look. Finn felt color rushing to his face and was irritated. Paul was a flamboyant personality, true, but that flamboyance had never bothered Finn in Manhattan. He hadn’t thought about it twice. But here on Seal Island…Paul’s high, light voice, the white silk scarf, the broad gestures…Paul suddenly seemed like someone in a play. A play debuting on a night Finn would have preferred to stay home.

  “There’s no waitress,” Finn told him. “If you want a drink, you have to get it yourself from the bar.”

  Paul raised his pale eyebrows and eyed the fishermen who had gone back to nursing their beers. He raised his eyebrows lasciviously, and it was all Finn could do not to groan.

  “What’ll you have?” Paul asked, and Finn shook his head.

  “I’m on pain meds.”

  “Anything good?” Paul threw over his shoulder before sashaying over to the bar. Finn could hear him ordering from across the room. Paul spoke to the fishermen, who answered politely, looked at each other meaningfully, then glanced back at Finn. They left shortly after, and Paul carried over two bottles of Allagash White, setting one in front of Fi
nn.

  “You haven’t changed,” Finn said. “You’re still a lousy listener.”

  “One drink won’t kill you.”

  “Why does everyone keep trying to pour alcohol down my throat?”

  “Because if you were any more uptight…well, actually that’s hard to imagine.”

  “Thanks!”

  Paul fastened his mouth daintily over the lip of the bottle and guzzled. Finn watched him, but the exasperation was slowly giving way to affection. He’d stayed with Paul when he first left the island, and they’d become close friends. Not least because Paul, as one of Fitch’s ex-lovers, wasn’t about to push Finn to reconcile or forgive and forget. The only thing he ever pushed Finn on was letting him handle his work. Paul was an art dealer—a very successful one.

  Paul set the bottle on the table. “How’s Fitch?” he asked, seeming to read Finn’s mind.

  “I don’t know. He’s not here.”

  Paul arched his eyebrows. He was very tall, very thin, with white blond hair cut in a bob, and a pale, bony, mobile face. “Where is he?”

  “That’s the funny thing. No one seems to know.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Simply that. No one knows where he is.” Finn added reluctantly, “It seems like he vanished after he left the island the last time.”

  “Three years ago?”

  Finn nodded.

  “After you caught him and…what’s-his-face in the lighthouse?”

  Finn scowled, nodding.

  “How…extraordinary.”

  “I don’t know.” It was extraordinary, though. And not in a good way.

  “Maybe he killed himself out of guilt,” Paul said cheerfully. “Chucked himself out of the lighthouse. It would be the first decent thing he did.”

  “No,” Finn said, ignoring 90 percent of that comment. “He left voluntarily. He took his suitcases. As it was, he was only staying for the summer.”

  Paul watched him with his cool, bright eyes. “Then why did you say he vanished?”

  “Because…” Finn hesitated. “Well, let me ask you this. When was the last time you saw him? I mean, saw him at all. Even from a distance.”

  Paul leaned back in the booth, squinting thoughtfully into his memories. “It’s been a couple of years, I guess.”

  “Three years, I bet.”

  Paul’s eyes met his. Neither of them said anything.

  Finn said finally, “The only time anyone ever mentions Fitch to me is to ask how he is or what he’s been up to. In three years, I can’t remember a single person telling me they’d seen or spoken to him.”

  “Gadzooks.”

  The door to the tavern opened, and Hiram walked in. “Do you boys want me to come back and get you later, or did you want to come up to the house now?” His gaze rested on Paul without particular pleasure.

  “What do you want to do?” Finn asked Paul, resigned.

  “Home, James!” Paul rose, gathering up the two beer bottles and sauntering out. Finn sighed, and Hiram glanced his way.

  “Don’t know what Martha is going to think of that,” he remarked.

  Finn rose, steadying himself with the silver-topped walking stick. His mind was still on the conversation with Paul, and he said, “Hy, three years ago, when Fitch left the island…did you give him a ride down to the wharf?”

  “Drove himself,” Hiram said. “He left the station wagon here and I had to walk down to get it. Don’t you remember?”

  No. Finn did not remember. He had been preoccupied with his own problems that morning. He had packed the night before and had wanted to leave at first light. In his memory that was what had taken place. Granted both Hiram and Martha were early risers, so Hiram could have hiked down to the wharf at dawn and had the station wagon back at The Birches by the time Finn had appeared, bags in hand.

  Hiram was already turning away, and Finn followed him out of the tavern. As they made their way down the boardwalk in Paul’s wake, the door to the general store opened and a woman stepped out.

  She nodded in passing to Hiram, nodded at Finn, and then her hazel eyes widened. “Finn Barret,” she exclaimed. “I’d heard you were coming home.”

  Coming home. Not how Finn had chosen to think of it, but it was true that when he had been lying in the hospital, Seal Island, not his Manhattan loft, was the place he had longed for. Longed for quite desperately.

  “How’ve you been, Miss Minton?” he asked, shifting his cane to shake hands.

  “Miss Minton!” She snorted. “You’re very formal these days, Finn.”

  Estelle Minton was a cousin of the Carlyles. She had their fair coloring and elegant bone structure, although she somehow appeared more rawboned and faded than her relations. But then Miss Minton was both a little older and not as comfortably off as the Carlyles. She supplemented her savings by supplying baked goods to the island general store—and making wedding cakes for mainlanders. Her wedding cakes were quite well-known in Harpswell and beyond.

  For a second Finn couldn’t think what she meant about being formal, but then he remembered that Fitch had always called her “Minty.” Finn had generally tried to avoid the social dilemma by not calling her anything.

  Without waiting for his response, Miss Minton went on, “How are you? Still pretty crocked up, I reckon. We heard about your accident.”

  Miss Minton always spoke in the plural—the royal “we,” Uncle Thomas called it. Fitch had joked that Miss Minton had an invisible best friend. Actually an invisible only friend was the way Fitch had put it.

  “I’m okay,” Finn said. “I’m up and around, that’s the main thing.”

  “It’s a large part of it,” she agreed. She was studying him frankly, and Finn wondered at this unusual attention. Miss Minton had never had much time for either him or Fitch—he was a little surprised to find she even remembered him.

  Noticing that Paul, tired of waiting in the car, was coming toward them down the boardwalk, he said hastily, “Nice to see you again! I’ve got to get off this leg.”

  Miss Minton followed the direction of his gaze. “What is that?” she asked disapprovingly, watching Paul cast his scarf over his shoulder and toss his head.

  Finn muttered, “Excuse me.”

  He hobbled to head off Paul, who greeted him as though he’d been given up for lost, and they made their way to the station wagon parked beside Miss Minton’s battered old pickup. Hiram joined them a couple of minutes later.

  “Was that the local witch or what?” Paul inquired as the car left the marina.

  Finn couldn’t help the edge that crept into his voice. “No.”

  “Quaint. Very quaint. It explains a lot, I think.”

  “What does?”

  “This place. You. You and Fitch both. You especially, though. You’re sort of…well…a throwback.”

  To what? Finn clipped, “Gee, thanks!”

  “It’s not an insult. It’s not a compliment, I admit, but it’s not an insult. So are you working on anything?”

  “No.”

  Paul sighed disapprovingly. “I thought that was the excuse for coming back to Salem’s Lot?”

  Finn glanced at Hiram, who could have been a cigar store Indian for the interest he showed in their conversation. “I never said that.”

  “You did. You said you thought it would be good for your painting.”

  He probably had said that, although he hadn’t meant it in the way Paul imagined.

  Paul thrust his head forward from the backseat. “My, my. You’re interestingly pale all at once. Not feeling well?” he suggested.

  Finn snapped, “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”

  “Your head’s hurting again, isn’t it? Why don’t you take some of those painkillers you’ve been taunting me with?”

  Finn glanced at Hiram, who was chewing the inside of his cheek and seemingly still not paying any mind to either of them. He said, “I don’t want to get in the habit.”

  Paul shook his head. “Now there’s
where you’re making a mistake. We are all creatures of habit.” He rattled cheerfully on, and Finn’s headache, which had only been the faintest suggestion, bloomed into full-blown pain.

  “…was reading an article about migraines in Scientific American. You have to catch them before they really get their claws into you. What you want to do is disrupt the pattern—it’s like an electrical disturbance in the circuitry of your brain…”

  Finn listened without hearing and nodded and told himself that he was really glad that Paul was there to keep babbling so that he couldn’t sit and brood in peace, because thinking about the past was getting him nowhere fast. It wasn’t healthy.

  They reached the house, and Paul enthused about the view and the fresh air and the sea breeze and the architecture, and then they were inside and Martha was bustling up to meet them, wiping her wet hands on her apron.

  “Lunch is all ready,” she said briskly. “Your uncle is working in his study.”

  She seemed to be trying to telegraph some warning to Finn. He said, “We won’t disturb him then.”

  Martha nodded, but he had misread her. She said, “And Con Carlyle is waiting for you in the parlor.”

  Chapter Four

  “Why do I know that name?” Paul asked into the silence that followed Martha’s words.

  Instead of replying, Finn asked curtly, “Why is Con here?”

  Martha looked uncomfortable. “I…snum he wants to talk to you.”

  “Snum,” murmured Paul delightedly.

  Finn was less delighted. He opened his mouth, but what was he going to do? Ask Martha or Hiram to throw Con out? Even if it were possible, it wasn’t practical. The island was too small and all their lives too intertwined to allow him to really avoid Con.

  Anyway, there was always the possibility that Con really did have something of importance to say to him—like oh-by-the-way-I-forgot-to-mention-Fitch-is-now-living-in-Australia. So he nodded at Martha, told Paul he’d join him in a couple of minutes, and squared his shoulders, heading for the parlor.