“No word from Wallace,” I said. “I want to do some research on MJ and Roger, too.” I clicked on Safari, a Web browser, and typed in MJ’s and Roger’s names.
But before I could get the results, a nurse called me into the examination area and told me to turn off my phone. I handed it to Jackson and we went into an examination room. I was seen by a young physician’s assistant, tall, with a scruffy beard and wild hair. I told him what happened and he examined me and ordered a CAT scan of my head and an X-ray of my wrist. We waited for the results. Forty-five minutes later, he came back.
“Nothing is broken, but you do have a severe concussion. You should have someone stay with you tonight and follow up with your own doctor.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Jackson said. “She won’t be alone.”
“Good. You can take Tylenol if you have any aches and pains. Try to take it easy the next day or so. Give yourself a chance to heal.”
I said okay, knowing perfectly well that any healing was going to have to wait until I found Roger’s murderer and got Simon out of jail.
We headed out of the ER and walked across the parking lot against the ever-increasing wind that was coming off the water. The hospital was right on the bay, and the salt water seemed to mix with the rain; I could feel its sting on my skin. Finally, we reached Jackson’s truck, and he helped me inside. I pushed my hair out of my face, fastened my seat belt, and turned my phone back on. It rang immediately.
“Willow?”
“Hi, Wallace. Did you talk to Mrs. Thorne?”
“I did. You can go see her now.” He gave me her address.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. “At this hour?”
“She just texted me and said it was okay. She’s a bit of a night owl.”
“We’re on our way. Thanks, Wallace.”
Jackson started the truck. “What’s that all about?”
“Edith Thorne will see us now.”
We headed out of Greenport after midnight. A steady rain from the hurricane had started, so Jackson flipped the wipers on high. Wind from the storm pushed his truck around on the road as if it weighed nothing. Thick branches and power lines were already down, and Jackson had to be careful to drive around them. It was an obstacle course. I tried to use the time to do a Web search even though I was dizzy and nauseated, but the server was down, too.
By the time we got to Southold, the storm was already much worse. Jackson had to slow down and use his bright lights when there wasn’t any oncoming traffic to see through the rain. We finally arrived at Edith Thorne’s house. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. Her house, an aging Craftsman, was located down a winding private road in Southold off Bayview Avenue, about a block from the water.
Her house had seen better days. The shingles were mildewed and falling off, and so were the tiles on the roof. Vines covered the fence that surrounded the yard, and the path to the door was cracked and uneven. The paint on the blue front door was peeling. One light was on downstairs. Jackson held his jacket over our heads and we ran to the door through the torrential rain. I knocked and we waited for what seemed like hours. We soon found out that this was the time that it took Edith to come to the door on her cane.
She opened the door and eyed us suspiciously. A tiny, birdlike woman, she had short, gray hair and small, round glasses. She wore light blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt that said ASJA. AMERICAN SOCIETY OF JOURNALISTS AND AUTHORS. WE WRITE THE BOOKS YOU READ and had a line drawing of a typewriter with a piece of paper in it.
“Mrs. Thorne, Wallace sent us. I’m Willow McQuade, and this is Jackson Spade. May we talk to you?”
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, as if unhappy about it.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, but the roads were a mess. Wallace said you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m up until all hours. I just can’t sleep like I used to, especially with this storm. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
We entered a dark and damp-smelling hallway cluttered with dusty antiques.
Mrs. Thorne pointed to a room on the left. “We can talk in here.” She followed us into the small room, which was lined with bookshelves. It had a couch and two easy chairs and a small television set perched on yet more books. The blinds were closed. A fire burned in the fireplace. Edith took her perch on the easy chair closest to the fire and motioned us to sit down. We sat on the couch opposite her. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, which looked puffy.
“Are your eyes bothering you?” I asked.
“They’re always burning and itchy. I’m a writer. I do a lot of reading and research.”
“Perhaps I can help. I’m a naturopathic doctor.” I was hoping this might smooth the way to her being more cooperative, although that wasn’t my first concern.
“A what?”
“I’m a doctor who specializes in natural remedies.”
“Never heard of that before. But what do you suggest?”
“A parsley-leaf tincture is helpful for eyestrain. You can also use violet leaves in a compress or an eyewash for sore eyes. It has antiseptic properties. I have them all at my health food store.”
She scrutinized me. “What’s this, some kind of pitch? You want me to buy something from you?”
I glanced at Jackson, who seemed amused. “No, no, just trying to help. No charge to you.”
“No charge? All right then.” She put her glasses back on. “It’s a good thing you know Wallace Bryan. He was one of my best students. Otherwise I wouldn’t have let you two in.”
“I know that. I really appreciate the fact that you’re seeing us.”
“Doesn’t he say anything?” She motioned to Jackson.
“I’m just here to help, Mrs. Thorne.” Jackson smiled.
“Help who?” Mrs. Thorne arched an eyebrow.
“A friend of ours, Simon Lewis, has been accused of murdering Roger Bixby. The odd thing about Roger’s death is that it was almost identical to the way Daniel Russell was killed years before. We were hoping if we could learn more about the past, about Daniel Russell’s murder, it might shed light on what happened to Roger Bixby last Sunday night.”
She sat in her chair and thought about this for a bit. We could hear the wind whining and the rain pounding the ground. I noticed a trickle of water in the corner by the window and, below it, a blue bucket. Jackson and I waited.
Edith got up, grabbed her cane, and went over to the wall of books to the right of the fireplace. After some searching, she plucked a dusty volume off the shelf and brought it back with her to her seat. “I’ve known the Bixby family for many years. Our families purchased summer homes here at the same time. Later, when I was older, my husband, Harold, and I used to meet Evelyn, Max’s second wife, along with Roger and Tom down at the Laughing Water beach. Of course, Max was always working. Roger and Tom were darling boys. We never had children of our own so we became very fond of them. Of course, when they got older, they had no use for us. Still, it’s a shame that Roger is gone.” She gazed out the window and seemed to become lost in her thoughts.
“You were saying?” I prodded her. We didn’t have much time to help Simon.
She turned back to us. “But before that, one night in January of 1953, Max came to see me. He wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
She gestured to the fireplace. “We sat here by the fire for a long time before he got to what was bothering him. That’s when I learned the truth about what happened on the estate in 1933.”
“You mean the year that Daniel Russell was murdered?”
“Yes, but first Max forced himself on Rebecca, Daniel’s wife, in January of 1933.” She paused and looked thoughtful. “You would call it rape now. Back then women had no rights and Max was powerful. He wanted Rebecca for himself. He told her to leave Daniel, but she refused. So . . .”
Jackson leaned forward. “So?”
“So, he killed him three months later, in April. He drowned him in the ba
thtub upstairs and took him down the secret passage to the beach. It was easy for him to get away with it. He had power back then. The family was respected. They tried to pass it off as an accidental drowning, but a sharp cop named Fletcher figured it out. The problem was, he could never get enough evidence to put Max behind bars. But Max lived with that guilt the rest of his life. He ended up a bitter, lonely old man. Roger was in L.A. and never visited; neither did Tom, even though he was only in Cutchogue. Very sad. Although you could say it was what Max deserved. It was his penance, you could say, living in that dreadful mansion with only Mrs. Florrick to keep him company.”
“What happened to Rebecca?” I asked.
Mrs. Thorne shook her head. “Rebecca was never the same after Daniel’s murder. Her death in 1953, twenty years after she had been raped, was the reason that Max came to see me that night. He told me that before Rebecca died from cancer, she confessed to him that he was James’s father, and that James was the rightful heir. If he wouldn’t acknowledge James as his son, she begged him to look after James after she was gone. Since I was an old family friend, he wanted my advice.
“I told him that he should be in jail, but if he wouldn’t confess, the least he could do was look after his own son. So, he made James the caretaker even though he was only twenty and gave him a cottage on the estate. It eased his conscience.”
I was trying to process all this. “So James should have been Max’s heir. Does he know?” If he did, that would give him the perfect motive for murder. And he’d also be the prime suspect.
“I don’t think so. But he was convinced that Max killed Daniel. Most people thought the same back then, but he was never arrested.”
“I know. He told me that.”
“What about Roger and Tom?” Jackson asked. “Aren’t they the rightful heirs?”
“No, you see, Max’s will left everything to his ‘oldest son.’ James was born in 1933, but Roger wasn’t born until after Max divorced his first wife, Madeline, and married Evelyn in 1966. She was much younger than Max, and she had Roger in 1968, then Tom in 1972. So James was his oldest son, except that Max never legally acknowledged him.” Mrs. Thorne pulled a thin piece of paper out of the book and handed it to me. “This is a letter of confession that Max wrote. He told me to open it upon his death. Until you came, I didn’t know what to do with it. But now I do.”
chapter twenty-four
Dr. Willow McQuade’s Healthy Living Tips
If you have nightmares, you don’t sleep easily. Sometimes nightmares can even make you afraid to go to bed at night. Often, the sensation you get when you have a nightmare follows you when you wake up, leaving you feeling strange. To sleep easier, herbal teas and sachets made of basil, chamomile, dill seed, and rosemary can help dispel disturbing dreams. You can also hang sprigs of these herbs over the bed. Sweet dreams!
Yours Naturally,
Dr. McQuade
January 16, 1953
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing in my own hand what transpired in 1933. I hired a young couple as caretakers in 1932, Daniel and Rebecca Russell. From the moment I met Rebecca, I was enchanted. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wanted her. She claimed she wasn’t interested in me. But I am not the kind of man who takes no for an answer.
One night in January of 1933, when Rebecca was working in the manor house, I made love to her on the living room divan. Afterward, I told her that she needed to leave her husband and marry me. She refused. I told her that if she didn’t leave him, I would make him disappear. But I don’t think that she believed I would do it.
Three months later, in April, I murdered her husband, Daniel, by drowning him in the upstairs bathroom. I carried him down the secret passage and left him on the beach. When he was discovered, Rebecca knew I had done it. But she was afraid of me and lied to the police.
We lived with that secret for 20 years. Before her death in 1953, she confessed that James was my son and heir and asked me to make financial arrangements to take care of him. I have done so but never told him the truth. I am sorry about the mistakes I have made and beg God to forgive me.
As God is my witness,
Max Bixby
I had the letter from Max in my hand and the directive from Mrs. Thorne in mind as we left her house after 2:00 a.m. Monday. She told us to go and talk to Mrs. Florrick, Max’s housekeeper. “Florrick can confirm everything I have said. Max told me that when he gave me the letter.”
While Jackson drove, I decided again to search the Internet for information about MJ and Roger, too. The more info, the better. I got several hits, but before I could check them out, I lost my connection. Rain pounded against the truck, and high winds buffeted it to and fro. We’d just reached a turn by a horse pasture when we came to a pothole that looked like a small lake.
Jackson slowed. “We could stall out. I’ve got to take it easy here.” He put his foot on the gas and we moved through the giant pothole foot by foot. When we’d reached the other side, Jackson tested the brakes. “We’re good.” We rounded the corner and kept going. The estate was only about a mile away when we came to our next obstacle—a huge tree branch in the middle of the road. Jackson checked the road behind him for traffic, grabbed the flashlight, and jumped out to examine the fallen limb. Moments later, he was back in the truck, soaked to the bone. The rain was fierce now. He reached behind him, in the open space behind the two seats, and pulled out a rope. “I’m going to tie this around that limb. When I signal to you, back up and head to the side of the road. That way,” he said, gesturing to the north side of the road.
“Okay.” I waited till he got out, then climbed over the gearshift to the driver’s seat. Jackson tied the rope around the end of the limb. When he was done, he waved to me to back up. I put the truck into reverse and slowly inched toward the side of the road. Rain sluiced down the back window. The visibility was zero, and I didn’t want to back into a ditch. Slowly, the truck tugged the heavy branch across the asphalt. Jackson followed it, guiding it onto the side of the road. I watched as he untied the rope from the branch. He ran back over, tossed the rope into the open truck bed, and came around to the driver’s side. I opened the door for him, then clambered back into the passenger seat.
After Jackson wiped his face with a towel from the glove compartment he took the wheel. I pulled out my phone. He drove slowly because we were close to the turnoff to get to the estate. No cars were coming so he took the left, forded another deep pothole, and headed south, toward the water. High winds buffeted the cab, and even though he had the wipers on high, it was all but impossible to see through the heavy sheets of rain.
While we inched along, I did another search. This time the Internet connection held, and I found what I needed. I told Jackson.
“So that’s it, then,” Jackson said. He took a right at the stop sign and headed down the rutted road, which was all mud except for what seemed to be one ditch after another, each a miniature lake. It was slow going, but we stayed on track. We got to the guard booth, drove through, and parked in front of the house. It was almost 3:00 a.m. We planned to get the golf cart and head to Florrick’s cottage, but when I got out of the truck, I spotted the beam of a flashlight by the stairs that led to the beach.
Jackson came around the truck and I grabbed his arm and pointed to the seawall.
“Someone’s over there!” I shouted over the storm.
“Let’s move!” Jackson yelled. “Something must be going on. They wouldn’t be out here otherwise!” He flicked on his flashlight and kept it low to the ground. We ran toward the retaining wall and peered down at the beach. There were two flashlight beams. “It looks like two people are down there.”
Voices carried on the wind, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I was already soaked to the skin and freezing cold, but I forced myself to ignore all that. “Let’s go down. We’ve got to get closer.”
Jackson looked in the direction of the steps to the beach. “We’ll take
the steps. Stay low and hold on to the railing. When we hit the beach, go for cover.”
We made our way down the stairs. At the bottom, we hustled behind the tall beach grass, trying to catch what was being said. Suddenly, the moon came out from behind the clouds and I could see who it was: Rick and Sheila, James Russell’s wife.
I’d expected to see Rick since the photos I’d found online, all from celebrity-gossip sites, showed MJ and Roger as a happy couple, out on the town in New York and in Los Angeles before she married Rick. The text in several of the articles intimated that their working on MJ’s Mind had rekindled their love affair. I figured that if Rick had killed Roger, it was out of jealousy. But my research had also shown that Rick had declared bankruptcy the year before, so that might be a factor, too. Maybe Rick thought that by his killing Roger, Rick and MJ would assume control of Galaxy. But he didn’t know about Simon’s shares and that Simon would control the company if Roger was dead. I didn’t know what Sheila was doing here.
Sheila shone her flashlight on Rick. “What do you mean, you don’t have any money for me? I helped you get rid of Roger! You owe me!” She balled her hands into fists and lunged at him. Rick tried to step away but fell down into the wet sand instead. His flashlight rolled away from him, and he struggled to get up and retrieve it.
“I’m contacting Koren,” Jackson said. He pulled out his phone and texted him.
“The two of them were working against me!” Rick said as he picked up the flashlight and shone it into Sheila’s eyes. She tried to shield her face. “They wanted to cut me out of Galaxy—it wasn’t just that she was having an affair! And don’t forget, I’ve already helped you. If it wasn’t for me, Roger would have sold the estate and revoked your lifetime tenancy!”
“That would have killed James! I couldn’t let that happen. You promised me you would stop it. You told me you would talk to Carly, but you didn’t! ‘Darlin’, I’m sorry, but she told me today that she’s still planning on selling the place!’ ” Sheila mimicked Rick’s Texas twang perfectly, then reverted to her own voice. “You didn’t live up to your end of the bargain.” She pulled out a small pistol and pointed it at Rick’s chest. “This is what happens when you don’t keep your promises.”
Scent to Kill: A Natural Remedies Mystery (Natural Remedies Mysteries) Page 24
