“The police have to believe us now,” Gwen said, hope in her eyes. “The boot size, the knives … they’ll reopen the case for sure.”
“The thing is, if the murderer came through the back door, why was the front door open?”
“That’s presuming there was a murderer,” John reminded me.
“Surely they’ll at least reopen it!” Gwen said. “They’ve got to!”
“I can’t promise that they will,” John cautioned her, “but at least we’ve got some evidence now that supports your theory. I’ll call Penney as soon as we get back to the inn.” My fiancé glanced at his watch, and then at me. “We’re late,” he said. “You may miss the boat.”
“The mail boat?” Gwen asked. “Isn’t the grocery order coming here?”
“I’ve got some business on the mainland,” I said. No need to worry Gwen.
She eyed my flannel shirt. “You’re going to freeze without a coat.”
I realized she was right. Standing outside for a few minutes was one thing; standing outside on a boat for thirty minutes without a coat was a ticket to hypothermia. “Shoot. I left it at the inn,” I said, “and it’s too late to go back.”
“Borrow Fernand’s,” Gwen suggested.
I looked over at the coat rack by the back door; sure enough, Fernand’s black parka hung on the last hook, closest to the door. I didn’t like the idea of wearing a dead man’s coat … but I liked the idea of crossing the water without any coat at all even less.
“Are you sure it’s okay to wear it?” I asked John. “I’m not messing with evidence, or anything?”
“It’s not a murder investigation, remember?”
“Not yet,” I corrected him.
“It’s fine,” he said.
I took the coat gingerly, as if it might bite me, and slid my arms into it. The coat still held the faint scent of Fernand’s cologne, and I felt a pang of loss. How could Fernand be gone, and his coat still be here, waiting for him? Death was so unfair.
_____
Bar Harbor was a shadow of its summer self—in August, cars lined the streets of the quaint downtown, but today, all but two spaces were empty, the verdant trees bare of leaves. A strong wind rolled up off the water, slicing through Fernand’s thick parka as we hurried up Cottage Street. Warm light glowed in Sherman’s, the local book and general store; I planned to go stock up on books before returning to the island.
John had offered to go with me, but I told him it was more important to stay with Gwen. Besides, I had my best friend along for moral support.
On the trip over, as we huddled in the wheelhouse to avoid the wind that swept over the water like a polar blast, I’d told Charlene about the footprints and the open front door, and asked if anyone had seen a boat coming to or from the island the night of the party.
“I don’t know, but I’ll ask around. It’s weird—why wouldn’t they come to the gallery? That’s where the party was.”
“That’s part of the reason it’s so suspicious. I’m thinking maybe whoever it was came later—after the party.”
“Or before,” she said. “Also, if the killer—assuming there is one, that is—came through the back door, why was the front door open?”
I shrugged. “Another mystery.”
“Too many mysteries, if you ask me,” she said. “As much as I hate to think of Fernand ending his life, it’s better than the alternative.” She shivered under her hot pink parka. “I don’t like thinking there’s another murderer loose on the island.”
“But if the murderer had to take a boat to get to Fernand’s, chances are whoever it is doesn’t live on the island.”
Charlene sighed. “Well, maybe there isn’t a murderer, but there’s somebody nasty on Cranberry Island.”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody cut up Muffin and Pudge,” she said.
“Oh, no!” I hated to hear of anything bad happening to Claudette’s goats, who spent most of the summer moving around the island chained to a tire that was supposed to keep them out of people’s flowerbeds. Problem is, the tire didn’t work. “I know they’re a nuisance, but they’re such sweethearts, and Claudette’s got a lot on her mind right now. She must be crushed to lose them.”
“They didn’t die,” she said. “At least not yet; it’s still touch and go.”
I shivered. “Who would do such a thing?”
She snorted. “Ingrid just put in an order for six more rosebushes. Maybe she decided to do a preemptive strike.” Selectwoman Ingrid Sorenson was an avid gardener who lived just down the street from Claudette, and she’d fumed for years over the goats’ annual rampage of her carefully tended rosebushes.
“I don’t see her as the slice and dice type,” I said.
“You never know,” Charlene said darkly.
“Well, I hope they find out who did it—and that the goats pull through. Claudette’s got enough on her plate.”
“I know,” Charlene said. “Caring for those kids, and then dealing with the daughter-in-law …”
“She’s an odd duck, isn’t she?”
“You’re telling me. She was as normal as could be at the party at Fernand’s, but when she came into the store yesterday, she looked like she’d escaped from a mental asylum. Kept asking about someone named Patricia.”
“She called me that when I first met her. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“Not a clue,” she said. “I don’t think Claudette does, either; I called to let her know Dawn looked like she needed some help, and Claudette hurried in to take her home as fast as she could. I’ve never seen her looking so tired. She’s aged ten years since her family moved up to the island.”
“I wish she’d let us help,” I said as the wind whistled by us. Garland hung from some of the shops, and it swayed in the wind.
“All we can do is keep offering,” Charlene said, as we hurried past the shuttered shops and empty streets.
The attorney’s office was only a few blocks from the main street, on the bottom floor of an old wooden house with large porches. Charlene and I hurried through the door, relieved to be out of the cold, and were surprised to see a red-faced man haranguing the receptionist, who was cowering behind her big wooden desk.
“When will he be back?”
“Not until next week,” she said.
“That’s not good enough.” His face flushed deep red. I found myself thinking it was a good thing we were on the mainland; we weren’t too far from the hospital in case he keeled over with a heart attack. “I just got a foreclosure notice from the original mortgage company today.”
The receptionist’s voice trembled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“You did, too?” I asked, stepping forward.
“Who are you?” the man barked at me. His red necktie was knotted so tight a good half inch of flesh protruded over his college, and his head looked swollen.
“I’m another of Lloyd Forester’s clients,” I said. “I got a foreclosure notice in the mail yesterday.”
He swung back to the receptionist without acknowledging what I’d told him. “When will he be back?”
“He’s supposed to be in on Monday.”
“That’s a week from now!” he bellowed. “I need this resolved immediately!”
“I’ll e-mail him and let him know …” the young woman said, her voice high and reedy.
“No,” the man said. “You’ll call him right now, and if he doesn’t answer, I’m hiring another attorney and suing his ass!”
“Did you refinance a property with Forester?” I asked.
He turned to glare at me. “And who are you again?”
“I’m Natalie Barnes. I own the Gray Whale Inn on Cranberry Island, and I think we may be in similar circumstances.”
“My circumstances are none of your business.” He turned and shook a fat finger at the young woman behind the desk. “Tell that yellow-bellied snake he hasn’t heard the last of me!”
; ELEVEN
HE STORMED OUT OF the office, slamming the wooden door behind him, taking any hope I might have had that it was a technical error with him. I looked at the young woman, who appeared to be attempting to merge with the potted ficus in the corner.
“Has this happened a lot lately?” I asked.
“He’s the tenth one this week,” she said, looking pale. “I can’t reach Mr. Forester. I don’t know what to do. And he was supposed to leave me a paycheck, but he didn’t.” There were tears in her eyes. Despite my anger at the attorney, I felt sorry for her; she didn’t know what her boss was doing. And what he was doing, I guessed, involved sitting on a beach in the Caribbean, sipping a drink he’d bought with my payoff money.
Charlene must have had the same thought; she looked at me and said, “Uh oh.”
I felt my stomach contract. “When did he leave town?”
“Two weeks ago,” the receptionist said. “He said he’d be checking in, but I haven’t heard from him.”
“What do we do now?” I asked Charlene, feeling a pit open in my stomach.
“Engage other representation?” she suggested.
“Wonderful.” I turned to the receptionist and asked her to contact us if she heard anything, told her I hoped she got a paycheck soon, and then I headed out into the cold with my best friend trailing me.
“Not good,” I said to Charlene as the door closed behind us and we turned into the wind.
“No, it’s not. Maybe we’ll get better news at the jeweler.”
“Here’s hoping,” I said, as we hurried down the street.
We’d gotten half a block when Charlene looked back, then tugged on my jacket. “Is that who I think it is?” she asked, pointing across the street.
As we watched, the man, who was wearing an expensively cut wool coat, crossed the street and hurried toward the attorney’s office. It was Murray Selfridge.
“Interesting,” I said. “Do you think he got a foreclosure notice, too?”
“I haven’t seen anything come through the post office,” she said, “but it may have come when Tania was working.” I knew she’d be keeping a lookout from now on, though.
It was two blocks to Island Jewelers; as much as I wanted to stay and see how long Selfridge stayed at the attorney’s office, it was too cold to linger, so we pressed on. After the frigid wind, the warm interior was a welcome change. The smell of dust and glass polish filled the air of the old store, whose proprietor, who always looked like Santa Claus to me, stood polishing a display case filled with Maine tourmaline.
“What can I do for you ladies today?” he asked.
“I was hoping you could take a look at a ring I received not long ago,” I said.
“What seems to be the problem?” He set aside his polishing cloth and adjusted his glasses.
“It’s supposed to be an antique,” I said, “but I seem to be having a reaction to it.”
“Let’s take a look,” he suggested, reaching for his jeweler’s loupe.
I yanked off my glove and tugged at the ring. Despite the cold, the skin around the gold band was inflamed, making it hard to pull off.
Charlene grimaced at the greenish black ring and the red, chafed skin on my finger. “That looks nasty.”
The stout jeweler picked up the ring and inspected it. His eyes, I couldn’t help noticing, were suddenly less twinkly. “No markings on the inside of the band,” he said.
“I thought that was strange,” Charlene said. “Isn’t there usually at least a carat mark?”
“Usually,” he said, “but not always.” I clung to that faint ray of hope as he held the ring to the light and inspected it with the jeweler’s loupe. I held my breath, praying that it was just some strange chemical reaction.
The jeweler looked up at me over the rims of his glasses. “I’m sorry to say, but this is not a diamond.”
I let out my breath slowly, feeling deflated.
“And the band—is it gold?” Charlene asked.
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. That’s why your skin is reacting.”
I felt as if he had punched me in the stomach. “Crap.”
“I wish I had better news,” he said as he put the ring on the counter. I grabbed it, shoving it deep into the pocket of the parka.
“Thank you for your help,” Charlene said.
“If you’re in the market for a real antique,” he said, “I have a few you might be interested in.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, retreating to the doorway, anxious to be out of the small store. Cold as it was, I was glad when we were back on the street.
Charlene squeezed my arm through my coat. “You need a drink.”
“I need a pastry,” I corrected.
“Let’s go to the Corner Bakery,” she said, and I let her guide me to the cozy bakery on a side street. The smell of fresh-baked muffins permeated the small shop, and Charlene quickly rustled up two hot chocolates and two chocolate croissants, then installed me at a corner table near the frosted window.
“Don’t blame John,” she said as she set down the golden pastry in front of me. I took a bite mechanically, barely tasting the rich dark chocolate encased in buttery layers of pastry. I was glad Bess, the owner, wasn’t at the shop today; normally I loved catching up with a fellow foodie, but today, I wasn’t up for much more than licking my wounds.
“What am I going to tell him?” I asked. “If I wasn’t allergic to it, I’d just wear it, and say nothing. But that’s obviously not an option.” I glanced down at my swollen, discolored finger and sighed. I reached into the pocket of Fernand’s coat for the ring, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“What’s that?” Charlene asked.
I unfolded it. It was blank, except for a couple of lines of Fernand’s neat handwriting. Again, I felt the sharp stab of loss.
“There’s a web site address,” Charlene said. “And a street address.” She pursed her lips. “The address looks familiar, but I can’t think from where.”
“The street address? Or the web sites?”
“The street address,” she said. “I wish I could remember … I see so much mail, though, it’s hard to keep track.” She sighed. “Still, it might be worth looking into the web site when we get home,” she said. “Could be nothing, but it might have something to do with what happened. What does John think about Gwen’s murder theory?”
“He’s willing to consider it, at least. Particularly after what Gwen found this morning.” I told her about Gwen’s Exacto knife discovery.
“Weird,” she said, shivering. “But I keep trying to think—who would have wanted to kill him?”
“The only possibility I can come up with is Zelda Chu,” I said. “She was pushing him to do something about a proposal, and he kind of blew her off the night of the party.”
“The way I hear it, she wasn’t too worried about competition from Fernand. If anything, it was the other way around.”
“I know,” I said, gloomily, taking a sip of the warm, buttery hot chocolate. “But I think she wanted the property he had. I don’t know if she wanted it enough to commit murder, though.” I took another sip, but even the sweet, thick chocolate wasn’t enough to dispel my dark mood. “Gwen is convinced someone killed him, but I’m having a hard time coming up with anyone who might have a motive.”
“Maggie isn’t big on gay folks,” Charlene pointed out.
“Yeah, but why would she murder Fernand? It’s an awfully weak motive. If anything, you’d think she’d want to get rid of the person who’s teaching her children.”
“She is; she’s circulating that petition, remember? And I heard she’s considering homeschooling now,” Charlene said.
I shook my head, exasperated. I’d never understood why people got so riled up about homosexuality.
“Back to Fernand, though. Has anyone gone through his files, or his computer?” Charlene asked.
“Not that I know of,” I said, folding the paper neatly and tuckin
g it back into the parka pocket. “I think they only do that if it’s considered a crime scene.”
“Might be worth checking out,” she said. “Maybe a spurned lover?”
“Gwen tells me he was dating a man in Bangor, and it was going well.”
“Maybe they broke up.”
“Who knows?” I said.
“If you fire up his computer, you might have a better idea.”
“Maybe Gwen and I will go over there tomorrow,” I said. “But in the meantime, I still have the mortgage and the ring to deal with.”
“Ah, yes. The brass ring. Didn’t John’s mother give it to him over Thanksgiving?” she asked. “Maybe she had it cleaned, and the jeweler substituted a fake one.”
“You can ask her when she gets here,” I said dully, taking another bite.
“What?”
“She’s coming for Christmas.”
Charlene groaned. “Well,” she said, “at least you’ll get to ask her in person, instead of over the phone.”
“Something else to look forward to,” I said.
“On the plus side, you don’t live a dull life!” Charlene licked her spoon and gave me a half-hearted smile.
I never thought I’d say it, but at that moment, the thought of a dull life was pretty appealing.
_____
It was almost dark by the time Charlene dropped me off at the inn. We’d caught the last mail boat back to the island after splurging on books at Sherman’s; I had Lea Wait’s latest mystery, and Charlene had snapped up a few more of the romances she’d become addicted to. Again, my stomach clenched as I looked at the shingled Cape with the glowing windows.
How was I going to figure out the mess with the mortgage company if the attorney had skipped town?
“Good luck telling John about the ring,” Charlene said, reminding me that the missing attorney wasn’t the only problem.
“Should I tell him tonight?”
“It’s going to bug you until you do,” she said. “Clear the air, I say.”
“We’ll see how it goes,” I said, dreading the idea of telling John the antique ring he had given me was a fake.
“Call me if you need to,” she said. “I’ll be up late reading.” She patted the bag of books.
Brush with Death Page 10
