“It sounds like a threat,” he said. “Have you done anything to make anyone angry at you?”
“Not any more than normal,” I said.
He sighed. “You are a trouble magnet, aren’t you?”
“Seems that way,” I said. “Although at least I’m still here.”
“Which is a happy stroke of luck,” John said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “Any other unpleasant news?” he asked.
“Actually, now that you mention it, there is,” I said, trying to decide which thing to bring up first—the foreclosure notice, or the ring.
“Uh oh. Let’s have it.”
I took a deep breath and decided I should get the mortgage fiasco off my chest. The sooner I told him, the better I’d feel. “Remember how I refinanced the inn a few months ago?” I said, cringing as I spoke.
“What about it? Did you miss a payment?”
“No. The new company wired the payoff funds to the attorney, but it looks like he never paid off the original note.”
“So … you still have two mortgages?”
“It’s worse than that,” I said, taking a deep breath. We crested the hill above the inn. The gray cape was nestled below us, a comforting puff of smoke drifting from the chimney, a red-bowed wreath on the front door, the windows glowing warm and yellow in the gray afternoon. “The original mortgage company sent me a foreclosure notice. And the attorney is out of town and can’t be reached.” I stared at the inn, realizing with a powerful wave of emotion exactly how much I treasured the gray-shingled inn—and the life it had allowed me to build. It didn’t seem possible that soon it might all belong to somebody else.
“He took off with the money?” John’s voice was low and steady, but I could sense he was upset.
“It looks like it,” I conceded, feeling that too-familiar hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. I told John everything I’d learned. “The foreclosure notice made the local paper, thanks to our friend Gertrude at the Daily Mail,” I concluded.
“Natalie.” John was very still beside me; I could not bear to look at him. “How long have you known about this?”
“Two days,” I said.
“Two days???” He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I felt sheepish. “You were involved in your class, and I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Didn’t want to worry me?” I turned to look at him, finally. The hurt and anger in his green eyes felt like a physical blow. “Natalie, we’re going to be married in a few months. We’re supposed to be a team.”
“I know,” I said. I looked away from him and pulled into my parking space outside the inn. “I’m sorry. I just … I was embarrassed. Ashamed that I’d made such a bad decision.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. I jabbed my foot at the parking brake, feeling tears well in my eyes.
“You hired an attorney to run the closing. This is not your fault. You are a victim of a crime.” He sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m supposed to be your partner. Your best friend.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I did something that might cause me to lose everything,” I said, shame and guilt welling in me. “Because of this stupid refinance, you could lose your home, too. The carriage house, the workshop …”
John squeezed my shoulder, then touched my cheek. I turned my head to look at him, feeling a stab of remorse at the mix of compassion and hurt in his eyes.
“Whatever happens, we’re in it together,” he said quietly.
As much as I’d thought about wanting to keep my independence, hearing John say he was in it with me, no matter what, felt like climbing under a down comforter on a sub-freezing night.
“Have you had any luck reaching the attorney?” he asked.
“He’s skiing in Colorado, and isn’t taking calls. Charlene and I are going over this afternoon to strongarm his receptionist into getting him on the line.”
“I doubt you’ll have luck with it—I’d be surprised if he wasn’t in Rio by now—but it’s certainly worth a try. We need other legal representation, though,” John said. “And you need to report this to the police. The sooner, the better.”
“Didn’t I just do that, Mr. Deputy?” I asked, surprising myself by grinning.
He laughed, lightening the heavy feeling that had fallen over us. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm, and we’ll figure out the rest.” As we got out of the van and hurried toward the kitchen door, he asked, “Any other unpleasant surprises?”
“I’ll save them until after you’ve had a cup of hot chocolate to warm up,” I said. I knew from experience that winter trips on the mail boat could be bone-chilling.
He turned, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course,” I said, twisting the ring on my finger. Despite what John had said about telling him everything, I didn’t have the heart to bring it up.
As I poured cocoa and sugar into a pan filled with creamy whole milk, John sat down at the kitchen table and reached over to pet Biscuit.
“So,” he said, as the plump tabby arched her back under his hand, “where’s this doll?”
“Near the base of the forest trail,” I said.
“Are you sure it’s recent? It could have been put there some time ago.”
“It didn’t look weatherworn,” I said. “And I saw someone out there a couple of days ago.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know—I just saw a person through the kitchen window. They came on foot, though, and not down the road.”
John stood up and grabbed a plastic bag from under the sink, then walked over to the coat hooks.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Checking it out,” he said.
“What about your hot chocolate?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Where is it again?”
“It’s about twenty yards that way, on the forest trail,” I told him as he opened the door. I watched as he tramped through the snow, following my tracks. The look on his face when he returned a few minutes later was grim. “You didn’t tell me it looked like you,” he said as he peeled off his snow-crusted boots. The doll was in a bag in his hand; I shivered, remembering it.
“I wanted a second opinion,” I said. “The yarn hair and button eyes were a bit vague.”
He raised a dubious eyebrow at me. “Gray eyes and brown, bobbed hair? Who else fits that description?”
I shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”
“It’s recent,” he said. “Whoever it was used the path you used, probably. How far did you go on the trail?”
“Across the creek, and then to the top of the hill.”
“We’ll retrace your steps and see if we see any footprints leading off the trail.”
“I doubt you’ll see much. We’ve had snow since it happened.”
“I know,” he said. “But it’s worth looking at.”
“Hot chocolate first,” I said. “You must still be freezing from the mail boat. And those tracks—or what’s left of them—aren’t going anywhere.”
He glanced out the window. “Any snow forecast?”
“None,” I said.
“I guess it can wait,” he said. “For a quiet island, there’s a whole lot going on.”
“Hope you don’t want to go back to the peace of the big city,” I said.
“With you here?” He reached for my hand. “Never.”
_____
By the time we finished our second mugs of hot chocolate, we’d put together a game plan for the foreclosure problem, and decided we would definitely house Catherine in the carriage house when she arrived, but were coming up empty on potential suspects in the case of Fernand. Neither of us had any idea who might have wanted to kill him, and the more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed to be. “Let’s go see Gwen,” John said, pushing his mug away. “I want to see what she’s doing for the sho
w.” He stood up and stretched, then walked to the dining room door. I found myself admiring the way his shoulders moved under the green flannel shirt as I followed him. He stopped at the door, turned, and enveloped me in another hug.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said. “I love having you to come home to every day.”
“Even if we lose our home?” I asked.
“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to my lips. “We’re working on that. And home is anywhere you are, anyway.”
He kissed me then, and if I hadn’t had to meet Charlene, I might have stayed in that doorway all afternoon. “We should probably go check on Gwen,” John said when we both came up for air.
“Yeah,” I said, halfheartedly.
Reluctantly, we parted, but held hands as we climbed the stairs to the second floor of the inn.
“Have you seen her new work?” he asked.
I nodded.
“What do you think?”
“Just between you and me,” I said in a low voice, “they’re not terrific. The oils aren’t nearly as good as her watercolors, which makes sense, because it’s a new medium. The problem is, she’s decided she never should have been an artist in the first place.”
“What’s she going to do if she’s not doing art? Join Adam on the lobster boat and haul traps?”
I couldn’t imagine my slight, fashionable niece in bright orange waders and covered in salted herring, but he was right; there weren’t a plethora of options on the island. “I don’t know,” I said. “With Fernand gone, I’m afraid she may leave the island.”
“Just because Fernand’s gone doesn’t mean she can’t still paint,” he said. “Zelda Chu might be willing to take her on.”
“She views Zelda as public enemy number one, I’m afraid.” I sighed. “What will I do if she leaves?” Not only had I come to depend on her help, but I had come to depend on her being part of my life. Although she was my niece, I had come to love her like a daughter.
“We’ll deal with that if it comes, Natalie. We have enough on our plates already; no need to add more.” He squeezed my hand as we arrived at the door to the Crow’s Nest. I could already smell the oils.
I knocked, but no one answered. “Gwen?”
Silence.
Glancing at John, I opened the door.
Gwen was gone.
TEN
“SHE WAS HERE WHEN I came to get you,” I said, staring at the empty room. A canvas with a few smears of deep blue pigment was the only sign of my niece.
“Maybe Adam came to pick her up,” John said.
I hurried downstairs to the phone and dialed Adam’s number. His voice mail picked up on the second ring. I left a message and hung up, then looked at John. “What do I do now?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said. “Maybe she left something at the studio, and went back to get it.”
“I told her not to go there alone,” I said as I picked up the phone and dialed the studio a second time. I let the phone ring ten times before hanging up, feeling my stomach clutch. “Let’s drive over there,” I said.
“You’re supposed to meet Charlene in thirty minutes,” he reminded me.
“If we don’t make it, we’ll take the next boat over,” I said. “The attorney can wait.”
“I can drop you off at the pier and call you when I know …”
“No,” I said. Cell phones were sketchy at best on the island, and I didn’t want to wait all afternoon for news. “Let’s go.”
It was a short drive to the studio, but it seemed to take forever. The clouds had broken, and the sun glistened on the fresh-fallen snow, giving the island a fairyland appearance, but the beauty was lost on me; I was too worried about Gwen.
“Relax,” John said, sensing my tension. “I’m sure she’s okay. Maybe she walked down to the store. Or maybe she had the music on too loud, and didn’t hear the phone.”
Despite his assurances, I had barely pulled up outside of the studio before John was out of the car and trying the doorknob. When it didn’t turn, he began hammering at the door. I felt my heart contract. Finally, the door opened, and my niece appeared, her jaw set and a streak of blue paint on her cheek.
“Gwen!” I said as I slammed the van door behind me. “What are you doing here alone? I called twice, and you didn’t pick up.”
“Sorry, Aunt Nat—I must have forgotten to turn the ringer on. But I’m glad John’s here.”
“Why?”
“I know Fernand didn’t kill himself,” she announced, her eyes gleaming. “I found proof.”
John glanced at me, and I gave him a barely perceptible shrug. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm, and then you can tell us,” he said to Gwen. In our haste to get to the studio, neither of us had remem-bered our coats.
“What did you find?” I asked when we’d shut the cold air out behind us. I wrinkled my nose. The gallery smelled of spoiled food; I made a mental note to come with a few islanders and clean it up sometime in the next few days.
“Remember how you said he’d used an Exacto knife?”
“Yes,” I said, shivering as I remembered the bloody blade.
“Well, it wasn’t one of his,” she said. “Come look.”
I followed her through the gallery to the studio. She led me to Fernand’s easel, which was at the far end of the room. A large unfinished watercolor was taped to a board leaning against it; a row of canoes, reds, oranges, and vivid yellows, lined up next to a brilliant blue lake. The colors seemed to glow on the paper, the translucence giving the whole work an airy, light quality. He had even captured the reflections of the trees in the water. I leaned closer, marveling at his ability to take such an uncontrollable medium and make it obey his wishes. He’d taught much of that precise technique to Gwen … but would no longer.
“I have to agree with you, “John said as we admired the painting. “That doesn’t look like the work of a depressed man.”
“That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.” I turned and looked; she was holding an open blue case. There were three slots for knives and a half dozen for blades; each of them was filled. “His knives are all here,” she said.
“He was very organized,” I said, not getting what she was showing me.
“Exactly. My knives are all accounted for, and we’re the only two painting in here.”
“You’re saying the knife Natalie saw him with didn’t belong to him,” John said.
Gwen nodded. “Exactly. Which means the murderer must have brought it with him. Or her.”
I mentally ran through my list of suspects. It was rather short, and at the moment, there were no women on it. Or anyone at all, really.
“Are you sure he didn’t have any in the house?” I asked. “Most artists have multiples of things like knives and brushes.” I knew I had more spatulas than I could shake a stick at—and not all of them lived in the same drawer.
“He just did a purge and gave all his excess equipment to an art school in Bangor,” she said firmly. “There weren’t any other knives here.”
“Even in the house?” John suggested.
“He kept everything here. His home was his home, his studio was his studio.”
“It’s certainly something to think about,” John said. “I’ll mention it to Penney when I talk to her.” His green eyes swept the windows along the back wall of the studio. “Did you or Fernand ever go down to the shore?”
“Not since the weather turned cold,” Gwen said.
“It looks like there are footprints out there,” he said, pointing to a series of indentations in the windswept snow. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I walked closer to the glass. “They seem to go to Fernand’s house,” I said. “And they haven’t been snowed over.”
“Did you notice any footprints on the day you discovered Fernand?” John asked.
“No,” I said, “but I didn’t think to look.”
“Let’s go check it out now,” he said.
Gwen and I followed John out the galler
y’s front door, shivering in the wind. There was a path shoveled from the gallery to the road, and from the gallery to the house. If anyone had come this way, there weren’t any footprints to show for it.
“What about the back door?” Gwen asked.
“It’s off the kitchen, isn’t it?” I asked.
Gwen nodded. We all looked at the foot of snow between us and the back yard. Since none of us was wearing boots, and two of us didn’t even have coats, traipsing through it to the back of the house was not an enticing prospect.
“I’ll go,” John said. “If there is evidence, the less it’s disturbed, the better. You two head into the gallery.”
I would have argued, but with the north wind slicing through my thin flannel shirt, I agreed.
I had started picking up paper plates and throwing them into a half-filled trash bag when John returned.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“There are tracks,” he said. “They lead to the kitchen door.” He looked at Gwen, who was helping me with the cleanup. “Did Fernand ever use the back door that you know of?”
“No, but most of the time we’re in the studio when I’m here.”
“How many sets of tracks are there?” I asked.
“I think I can identify one coming in, and one going out. Same person, by the size of the prints.”
“Or one going out and one coming in,” I said. “The problem is, whose are they?”
“Fernand has a spare pair of rain boots in the storage closet,” Gwen said. “At least we can compare footprint size.”
“Good thinking,” John said.
“I’ll go get them,” she said, and scurried to the closet, returning a moment later with a pair of black rubber boots.
As John exited the gallery a second time, I began scraping the old food from the serving dishes into a plastic bag, wishing it were warm enough to open a window—or that there was an exhaust fan. When the door opened again, the blast of cold air was welcome; it was icy, but at least it was fresh.
“Well?” I asked, not sure what response I was hoping for.
“Whoever it was,” he said, “it wasn’t Fernand. The prints are several sizes larger.”
Brush with Death Page 9
