“The Bixbys are mentioned in connection with rum running, but that’s all. The only mention I can find about Daniel is what you found in the library.” He closed the book he’d been reading. “Are there any museums around here? Maybe they could tell us something.”
“Simon, you’re a genius. I know just the place.”
The Maritime Museum was located in Greenport at the foot of Third Street, in a former railroad station, adjacent to the Shelter Island ferry dock and the Long Island Rail Road stop. I hoped that we might find something that would move me one step closer to solving the case. We decided to walk over, since it was just a few blocks from Nature’s Way.
The museum was a bright, airy space with white walls, hardwood floors, and a second story accessible by a staircase. For a small museum it had an impressive collection that included exhibits on the maritime heritage of Greenport; and displays on menhaden, or bunker, fishing, along with information about the thriving oyster industry before the hurricane that wiped it all out in the thirties. There were also nautical flags, lighthouse lenses, model ships, and lots of photos depicting maritime history.
The volunteer who manned the information desk was busy chatting on the phone and typing something on the computer. Two people were also waiting to talk to her. Rather than get in line, I told Simon we should each take a floor and get started looking for information on the Bixbys and the Russells. I needed to be at the estate by one, and it was already eleven twenty. We split up and started looking. I took the bottom floor and scanned the walls as I slowly walked toward the east end of the building.
Fifteen minutes later, Simon leaned over the railing upstairs and called down, “Find anything yet?”
“No, keep looking.” I added under my breath, “And have a little patience.” Sometimes Simon reminded me of a little kid on car trip, always asking, “Are we there yet?” But about thirty seconds later, I came to a black-and-white photo from 1930 on the wall of three men on a fishing boat in Greenport Harbor with a giant swordfish at their feet. One of the men in the photo looked a lot like Roger. I looked at the plate under the photo: MAX BIXBY, DANIEL RUSSELL, AND RON TURNER CATCH ONE OF LARGEST SWORDFISH EVER ON EAST COAST. It was amazing how much Roger Bixby resembled his father, Max. Both had angular faces and serious, dark brooding looks. Daniel Russell seemed more lighthearted, with a thatch of blond hair and a friendly smile. Ron Turner was big and burly, with a full beard and bushy eyebrows. The name Ron Turner was familiar, but I couldn’t remember why.
“I’ve found something,” I called to Roger. He scurried down the stairs and stood next to me. I explained who the men were. “I think the three of them, besides being fishermen, were rum runners.”
“That’s what it said in the book. But who’s this Turner guy?” Simon pointed to the stocky man with a ruddy complexion wearing waders.
“The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. There’s no one on the set named Turner, is there?”
“Not that I know of, but I can check with Carly.”
He was texting Carly when it clicked. “I think I know,” I said. “I got a card from the Turners when Aunt Claire died. I never met any of them, but maybe they’re related to this guy in the photo.” I pulled out my phone and called information for his number.
It turned out that Ron Turner was the son of the Ron Turner in the photo. I found his wife, Cynthia, at home. After we talked about Aunt Claire and how they had worked together to close the pet shop in Greenport that was to be filled with puppy mill dogs, I asked her if her husband was at home. She told me he was fishing and where to find him.
Half an hour later, we arrived at Laughing Water beach, located directly across from the estate. Simon and I traipsed across the powder-white sand to the edge of the shore. I took Qigong off his leash and he ran down the beach to where Ron Turner was standing with his fishing pole cast out into the bay. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, waders, and aviator sunglasses. He looked to be in his late seventies, the same age as James Russell. Like his father, he too sported a beard and had bushy eyebrows that looked like fat caterpillars.
He reached down to pet Qigong and gave me a smile. “Cute dog.”
I rubbed Qigong’s back. “Thanks, he’s a rescue.”
“I’ve got two greyhound rescues of my own at home. They’re such sweet dogs.” He took his sunglasses off and clipped them to his shirt. “You must be Willow McQuade. My wife called and told me you’d be coming.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Ron Turner. We were both real sorry about your aunt. She was the best. She really helped me out with the arthritis in my hands. I’m a fisherman, and working outside all those years did some damage.”
“I’m glad that she could help you.” I gestured to Simon. “This is Simon Lewis. He’s a friend of mine.”
Ron shook Simon’s hand, too. “Nice to meet you.” Ron reeled in the line and let it out again. The water sparkled on the bay like stars. “So what can I help you folks with?”
I watched the water lap at the shore. “I’m interested in learning more about Max Bixby, Daniel Russell, and your father. If you don’t mind, can I ask, was your father a rum runner?”
“Course he was. Most fishermen out here ran liquor as a side job.” Ron smiled. “They had some adventures. My dad loved those times.”
I pointed to the estate. “I did some research that showed that Max Bixby and Daniel Russell were rum runners, too.”
Ron reeled in his line and tossed it again. “Max provided the financial backing. He couldn’t have outrun the coast guard if he had a jet. But he had a crew, and my father and Daniel worked in it. They did the hard work, took the risk of getting the booze from the three-mile limit to land and up the island to New York City speakeasies. They used the secret passages in the house and secret compartments in the trunks of Max’s cars to hide the liquor so it could be transported.”
So there was more than one secret passage? I’d have to check that out along with the secret compartments in the cars. “Did your father tell you about the murder of Daniel Russell in 1933?”
“Sure. Everyone knows about that.”
“Do you think Daniel’s murder had something to do with the rum running?”
“That’s what the family wanted everyone to believe,” Ron said. “My father said it had something to do with Daniel’s wife, Rebecca. That’s James Russell’s mother. She worked for Max as a maid. Rumor was that Max was in love with her, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. It was almost common knowledge that Max killed Daniel to get Rebecca for himself. But the Bixbys had a lot of power back then—all the way to the White House—and Max was never even investigated. Naturally, the case was never solved.”
“I think that Daniel’s murder may be connected to the murder of Roger Bixby, Max’s son. Simon has been accused of the crime by the police.”
“But I didn’t do it,” Simon said. “I really didn’t.”
Ron sized up Simon. “I don’t know anything about you, but if Claire’s niece here believes in you, you’re probably okay.” Ron reeled in his line, frowned at the empty hook, and tossed it back in the water. “If you’re investigating this thing, you need to know that these people are ruthless both upstairs and downstairs. Max was meaner than a rattlesnake, didn’t care who he hurt. And Daniel’s son, James Russell, the caretaker, is every bit as cold-blooded as old Max was.”
“James Russell is an old man now. You’re saying he’s dangerous?”
“He’ll do anything to protect his place on that property. A few years ago, Max considered opening the estate to the public to earn money for upkeep on the mansion. James went up to the house with a shotgun and told him what he thought of that idea.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. James was now rapidly rising to the top of my suspect list.
Ron reeled in the line and stuck the fishing pole in the sand. He turned to look at us. “It’s all about money, power, and pride on that side of the wall, so you two better be careful.”
Simon had driven to the beach, so we parted there.
I headed to the estate to find Jackson and tell him what we’d found. When I got to the mansion, I tried him on the walkie-talkie and told him where I was. A few minutes later we were sitting on the steps, talking. Qigong jumped on Jackson’s lap.
“How is Tom doing?” I asked.
Jackson scratched Qigong behind the ears. “He’s going to be okay, but he did have a concussion. Rick told him to take it easy. Today, they’re concentrating on putting together a montage about Roger for the show, and show how his murder is similar to Daniel Russell’s murder. He says it’ll be good TV.”
“I’d like to see that. Simon and I did some research this morning. We didn’t find much in the books from the library, so he suggested we go to a museum. That gave me the idea to go to the Maritime Museum, and that led me to Ron Turner’s son.” I told him about our conversation.
“So you’re going to talk to Lucas and James again?”
I nodded. “I also found something in the lavender diary.” I opened the book to the passage that said, MJ and R came over. Discussed TV shoot. Nothing new from R. Same B.S. This will be a problem. Talk to LB.
“Sounds like James has a relationship of some kind with MJ and Rick. And who is LB?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Can you go with me?”
“Can’t. Another production meeting.”
“Ron also mentioned secret passages, so there must be more than the one we discovered. He also said the cars back then had secret compartments.”
“Well, I don’t know if any of the old cars are still around, but I’m guessing you want to go hunt for those other secret passages.”
“You’re getting very good at reading my mind.” I grinned. “What’s the schedule for tonight?”
“They’re breaking at six because it’s Saturday night and Pierre’s birthday and they’re taking him out to celebrate. Then, the plan is to shoot all day tomorrow and into the night. MJ wants to go back up to the third-floor bathroom after dark. So if you want to take a look, let’s do it tonight.”
“I’ll meet you at six.” I stood up and grabbed Qigong’s leash.
Jackson kissed me. “Make it seven. That way everyone will be gone. Keep me posted about your visit to the Russells. Remember what happened last time.”
I promised to check in with Jackson periodically as I set off for the Russells’ house. After being shut in the shed and receiving the warning, I knew I had to be careful. So, I took Qigong with me and also decided to use my phone to record any conversations I might have.
When I got there, Sheila Russell was sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch, having a cup of tea. She wore a faded housedress and flip-flops. She set her cup down on a little side table when she saw me. “Help you?”
“I’m Willow McQuade.” I climbed the stairs to the porch. “I was here the other day.”
“Right, to see Lucas.”
Up close, I could see that her face was weathered and covered with fine lines, her hair more gray than blond. She looked as though she’d had a difficult life. “Is he around?”
“No, he’s helping up at the big house.” She pointed to her cup of tea. “Would you like a cup? It’s freshly brewed chamomile. Very relaxing.”
“My favorite, thanks. Do you use the plants you have around here? I saw some the other day.”
“I’m not that adventurous. I use tea bags. But it will just take a moment.”
“Sure, thank you.”
She opened the door to the cottage and went inside. I took the chair next to hers, pulled out my phone, texted Jackson about what I was doing, then switched on the phone’s recorder.
Sheila returned moments later and handed me a mug decorated with wildflowers.
“Thank you.” A lavender-scented breeze wafted past my face. The view from the cottage was lovely. I could see the pond and off in the distance the sparkling aqua-blue bay beyond the retaining wall. “It’s beautiful here. You must enjoy it.”
She sat down and picked up her cup. “I try to, but James is not well. He has terrible migraines, two or three a week. And when they hit, he can’t work, can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t do much of anything. It makes it, well . . . difficult.”
“What does he take for his migraines?” I knew how devastating they could be.
“An aspirin or two. Mostly, he just waits until they pass.”
This was unfortunate because there were many natural remedies for migraines (even eating two tart apples a day can help) and, if necessary, new prescription drugs as well.
“Lucas has them, too.” She took a sip of tea. “Was there something you needed from him?”
“I met Ron Turner today. He told me that his father was a fisherman who worked for Max in his rum running business. Is that true?”
“Ron Turner,” Sheila said softly. “I haven’t seen that man for years. . . . Yes, it was Ron Sr., Max, and Daniel.”
“So they did work together as rum runners?”
“Yes, they did. Although Max pretended he had no part in it. He had a reputation to maintain. Mr. Big Shot.” Her voice dripped with disdain. So far, it seemed the only person who had anything good to say about Max was Mrs. Florrick.
“We also talked about the murder of James’s father in 1933,” I went on. “So, Max was a suspect?”
Sheila gave a bitter laugh. “Everyone from here to New York City knew he did it, and he was never even charged. I tell you, if I never hear about that again, it would be a blessing. James goes on and on about it. He’s obsessed with the past.”
I sipped the chamomile tea while I considered how to phrase the delicate question about Rebecca Russell. “Ron said that Daniel’s wife, Rebecca, was a maid in the big house.”
“Oh, yes, and didn’t Mr. Bixby take advantage of that. He forced himself on her. James said that she was never the same after that.”
“That’s horrible. I didn’t realize that she was raped.”
“She was,” Sheila said bluntly. “And to this day, James can’t stop thinking about it. I do believe it’s why he gets those bad headaches.” She let out a big sigh. “Even worse, when he feels unwell, all the responsibility falls on poor Lucas. I wanted him to have his own life, to leave this place, but he can’t because of James. It’s been a hard life for him, for all of us living in the past.”
“Perhaps if you moved away it would be easier for everyone.”
“You obviously don’t know my husband. James would never leave, and he doesn’t like change. When Max wanted to open the grounds to the public a few years ago, he went crazy.”
“Sheila!” James shouted from the inside the house. “What are you doing? Come inside, I want my lunch!”
Startled, she jumped up from her chair, and as she did, her teacup clattered to the ground and broke. “So much for teatime.” She tried to smile as she knelt to pick up the pieces.
“Get in here, woman!”
“Why don’t you let me pick those up?” I said quickly.
James shouted for her again.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll clean it up later.” She walked toward the screen door, pulled it open, and stepped inside.
I stood there for a moment, looking at their house and wishing I could rescue Sheila Russell from her husband. Was he physically abusive, too? Ron Turner had called him ruthless and cold-blooded. At the least, he seemed a man trapped in bitterness and anger. The question was, was it the kind of anger that could lead to the murder of Roger Bixby?
I started the golf cart, made a U-turn, and skidded to a stop because Amanda had pulled up in front of me.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said, sounding aggravated. She jumped out of the cart and came over to me. “I think you have something of mine, or rather of Sheila’s, and I need it. Pierre and MJ want to see it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. The diary? You took it from the production trailer. Can I have it, please?”
I had gone through the diary pretty
carefully and probably didn’t need it anymore. I wondered why MJ and Pierre wanted it. Were they, too, looking for clues to Daniel’s murderer? In any case, I didn’t want the shoot held up because of me. I took the journal from my purse and handed it to her. “Is this what you’re looking for? I was just borrowing it.”
“Sure you were,” she said dismissively. “I know how nosy you are. You were even looking at my text messages yesterday.”
“It’s not what you think. I’m trying to help a friend.”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to clear Simon when he’s the one who killed Roger! I don’t know how you live with yourself.” She climbed into the golf cart and took off.
chapter nineteen
Dr. Willow McQuade’s Healthy Living Tips
If you’ve ever had a migraine, you’ll never forget it. Over 30 million people in the United States have migraines, most of them women. The knifelike, throbbing nature of a migraine demands that you pay attention. You can feel the pain of a migraine in your forehead, temple, ear, jaw, or around the eye, usually one side at a time. You may also be overly sensitive to lights, sounds, and smells. Aromatherapy can be a gentle remedy to help address the pain. My friend Jade Shutes recommends this remedy:
Migraine-Stopper Gel
5 drops peppermint essential oil
3 drops lavender essential oil
1 tablespoon aloe vera gel
Mix all in a small bowl. Apply to the temples and the back of the neck. Avoid the eye area.
Wash your hands after applying. If your headaches are interfering with daily activities, it’s time to see your health practitioner.
Yours Naturally,
Dr. McQuade
Amanda drove off, leaving me to mull over what she’d said. She was angry because she believed that Simon had killed Roger, and I was trying to get him off. But how did she even know I was trying to clear him? Had Carly told her? I wondered if Amanda was the one who sent the threatening note, trying to scare me off the case. Was she the one who’d pushed me into the shed? None of that really made sense unless she’d been close to Roger.
Scent to Kill: A Natural Remedies Mystery (Natural Remedies Mysteries) Page 19
