Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

That’s right; Adam was there, too. “He’s a good man,” I said. “Well, you just focus on getting better; everything’s fine around here.”

  “Have you talked with Mr. Munger yet?” I could hear the tension in her voice.

  “No … but I understand he’s the one who found you.”

  “That’s what Adam said. I’m worried; we never got a chance to talk about the paintings.”

  “It’ll keep,” I said, gazing out the window toward the mainland, which was dusted with white after last night’s snow. “I’ll give him a call. What’s his number?”

  “I don’t know it by heart, but it’s in the phone book. Cottage Street Gallery.”

  “Got it,” I said, flipping through the phone book. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Gwen.”

  “Me too,” she said. “But I’ll be even gladder when this show is over.”

  I hung up with Gwen and checked my watch; too early to call Bridget on the West Coast, but not too early to call Munger. I wanted to hear what he’d found when he discovered Gwen, anyway. I grabbed a sliver of coffeecake and took a bite of the moist, cinnamon-pecan studded cake and dialed again.

  Munger answered on the fifth ring, sounding irritated.

  “Herb, this is Natalie Barnes—Gwen’s aunt.”

  “How is she?” he asked. “Will she be able to attend the show?”

  I swallowed down my irritation. “She’s going to be fine,” I said, “and I assume she’ll be in good shape for the show, but that’ll be up to her doctors.”

  “I’ve already paid for advertising,” he said in a peeved voice.

  “I know,” I replied. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about how you found her. What time was it?” I asked.

  “It must have been at around 1:20,” he said. “I came over on the 12:30 mail boat and walked over to the studio. She was supposed to meet me at the dock, but when she didn’t show up, I figured she’d forgotten. Typical artist.”

  I bristled, but said, “How did you find her?”

  “I knocked twice, but no one answered. I thought I heard someone inside, though, so I tried the door—it was unlocked—and let myself in.”

  “Where was Gwen?”

  “In the studio,” he said. “Near her easel.”

  “I heard there was a ladder?”

  “It was right next to her.”

  “Anything strange or out of place?”

  “No,” he said, sounding irritated by the question. “Wait—there might have been one thing.”

  “What?”

  “There was snow on the floor. Right next to her.”

  “It can’t have been there long,” I said. “The studio was heated.”

  “You think someone else was there?”

  “I think it’s likely,” I said. “And I think you interrupted whoever it was.” A chill went down my spine as I thought of what might have happened if Munger hadn’t showed up. As much as I disliked him, I was thankful—he might have saved my niece’s life.

  “I just hope she gets those oils done,” he said. “When did they say she’ll be out of the hospital?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But even if she doesn’t get the oils done, she’s got tons of gorgeous watercolors. In fact, I think they’re better than the oils.”

  “I’ll show them if I have to, but oils are what’s selling. If Gwen wants to make a name for herself, that’s where it’s at.”

  “I think her watercolors are beautiful.”

  “Yes, but watercolors aren’t hot right now. To be a successful artist, you need to learn what the market likes.”

  I swallowed back what I wanted to say, and made a choked sound that he evidently took as assent.

  “Well, let me know when your niece is back in the saddle. The show’s only a few days away; she’d better heal fast.”

  “I’ll keep you posted. I would hate for your advertising to go to waste,” I said, sarcasm lacing my voice. Maybe Gwen did need a mentor, but Herb Munger was nowhere near the top of my list. Or even on it.

  When I’d hung up, I turned to survey the kitchen; Catherine had put away all the dishes and was wiping down the counters. I had rarely seen her in jeans, but they suited her; she almost looked as if she belonged on the island. Except for the cashmere. “Someone attacked her, then,” she said, shaking her platinum-dyed head.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I can’t think who would want to hurt that lovely young woman.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  She hung up the dishtowel and sat down at the table. “There’s always darkness under the surface, it seems. This seems like such a peaceful place, and yet …” She hesitated, then turned to me, the dishtowel twisted between her hands. “Natalie, I’m sorry about the ring.”

  I looked at her, surprised by the non sequitur. “What do you mean?”

  She gave a deep sigh and twisted the dishtowel again. “I never wanted to tell John, but his father … had some problems.” She looked out the window; I sensed she was having difficulty meeting my gaze. “I tried to hide it from John—he worshiped his father—but it was difficult.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Family relationships are hard.”

  “Yes, they are,” she said. She looked older this morning, the lines in her face deeper.

  I stood quietly, waiting for her to continue and wondering how this related to the ring. “When we went to Cliffside,” she said, “I told you it was the last place John’s father and I had been happy.”

  “I know.”

  “John was fifteen at the time,” she said. “Paul and I had a stable marriage—happy, even. We’d been together almost twenty years by then.” Her eyes seemed to be focused on a different scene than the cozy kitchen around us. “It was a lovely summer—I hated to be away from my friends in Boston, but the weather was fine, and the house was lovely, and John—well, he loved it here.” She took a deep breath, then continued.

  Her voice hardened. “The gambling started when we got back to Boston.” She looked out the window, into the distance. “And the womanizing.”

  I stood, silent. I’d never heard about gambling from John. Or affairs.

  “He started with small things,” she said. “A few hundred dollars here and there. But then it got bigger.” She took a ragged breath. “It took years. And I didn’t know it was happening.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  She gave a bitter laugh. “I figured out the womanizing after a few years, but didn’t want to ruin the family for John. That’s why I stayed with him.”

  “What about the gambling?” I asked.

  “I knew about the savings—some of it, anyway. I didn’t know how bad it was until after he died. There was a small life insurance policy, enough to keep me going for a few years. But I didn’t know about my mother’s ring.”

  “He sold the original and used it to cover his debts?”

  Her face was pale, devoid of color. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that he would stoop so low, but that’s the only explanation I can come up with. And now, I’m faced with a situation I swore I’d never find myself in.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. Paul had died years ago. What had happened?

  “They’re foreclosing on my home,” she said. I could see the pain in her face; she had lived in her grand Boston townhome for almost forty years. “I refinanced when … when I found out all that Paul had done to our savings. But the insurance policy money ran out in the summer. I haven’t been able to make payments in months.”

  “Oh, Catherine …” I said, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of me. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Is it too late to talk with the mortgage company?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t want to burden you,” she said. “I didn’t want John to know what his father had really done. And I … I was embarrassed.”

  She looked away, flushed with shame. All the facade had cracked, and her pain was plain to see. I crossed the kitchen and opened my
arms, holding her thin body as she sobbed. As I held her, John walked into the kitchen, then froze just inside the door.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it Gwen?”

  “No,” I said. “Gwen’s fine.” Catherine pulled away from me, wiping at her eyes.

  “I was just explaining to Natalie what happened with the ring,” she said. “I suppose it’s time you knew, as well.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes dark with worry.

  “It’s like this,” she said, taking a deep breath and then telling John what she’d told me. I sat quietly as she explained what had happened with his father. “He wasn’t a bad man, John. It’s … it’s an addiction. Like alcohol, or drugs.”

  “Mom, I’m so sorry you had to suffer this by yourself,” he said, sitting down at the table and shaking his head. “You should have told me.”

  “I knew how much you loved him,” she said. “I didn’t want to ruin your image of him—taint the relationship.”

  John ran a hand through his sandy hair; his voice was calm, but I could tell he was upset. “If he drained your savings, how are you making it financially?” he asked.

  “That’s the thing,” she said. “The insurance money ran out a few months ago, and … I didn’t know what to do.” She took a deep breath. “The reason I came here … is that they’re foreclosing on the house.” Her face was bleak. “I have nowhere to go.”

  John leaned back in his chair, looking stunned. “You lost the house?”

  She nodded, looking at a spot on the floor.

  “But Thanksgiving … you must have known then. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was ashamed,” she said in a low, quavering voice. Then she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, looking her son in the eye. “It galls me to ask this, but I have no choice. If you can give me a place to stay for a while, until I can get things figured out, I would appreciate it.”

  John glanced at me, and I nodded slightly. “Of course,” he said. “But let’s see if we can talk to an attorney first, see if we can rescue the house.”

  “It’s no use,” she said. “It’s in the beginning of January. I have just enough time to clear my things out—the problem is, I don’t have anywhere to move them.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” John said, running his hand through his hair again. I could hear the take-charge tone of voice. Catherine could, too—I could sense her relaxing.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice low and sincere.

  John walked over and gave her a huge hug. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “That’s what family is for.”

  Not for the first time, I was grateful to be engaged to such a wonderful man.

  _____

  “Is Gwen okay?” Charlene asked when I stopped by the store with the extra muffins from this morning’s breakfast. The green pickup truck was in front of the store again; I spotted its driver sitting at the end of the bar, staring into his cup of coffee. I found my eyes drawn to him—and was tempted to ask him where he’d been going in such a hurry the other day.

  “Natalie?”

  “Sorry,” I said, turning my attention back to Charlene. “She seems to be recovering fine, but she has no idea what happened. She was wearing earbuds when she was attacked. She must have left the door unlocked.” The police had found no sign of forced entry. Again—what had she been thinking?

  “I’m just glad she’s going to be okay.”

  “She’ll be fine, but I may not.”

  “Why?” Charlene’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Looks like our mortgage troubles may be in hand,” I said, “but my future mother-in-law will most likely be moving in with us for a while.”

  “You’re kidding me,” my friend said.

  I glanced around at the other people in the store; Charlene, understanding, moved us toward one of the side aisles so we could talk more comfortably. “Financial troubles,” I said in a low voice.

  Charlene’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Really? I know the economy hasn’t been terrific, but I thought they were loaded. Isn’t she a Boston Brahmin type?”

  “She is, but things have changed,” I said. “Her husband was a gambling man, evidently. Gambled their life savings away.”

  My friend winced. “Ouch.”

  “I’m actually starting to like her, now that I get to know her. She’s devoted to John. And she’s got a lot of chutzpah, for sure,” I said, remembering how she’d talked her way into the Torrone compound. “She’s actually been volunteering to help out around the inn—and as long as it’s not cooking, she does a great job.”

  “No more cabbage?” Charlene asked. I’d told her about the steam-ing incident.

  “Nope—and I think I’ve got the smell out at last.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Charlene said, not sounding convinced. “Any more weird dolls or blood?” she asked.

  “None,” I said. “Haven’t heard back from the lab yet, but John will let me know.”

  “Speaking of interesting things, I’ve got something to show you,” she said, her eyes glinting with excitement.

  “What is it?” I asked, stealing a glance at the man at the end of the bar. I thought about how he’d pulled out in front of me the other day, fishtailing into the road. What was he doing on Fernand’s road—and why the agitated driving? There were only three houses down there; did he live in one of them?

  “You’ll see,” she said. I followed her into the back room, where she pulled out an open manila envelope addressed to Nina Torrone.

  “Did you open it?” I asked. “That’s a federal offense!” Not that I should be talking—I’d done my share of snooping in the past—but still. She was the postmistress.

  “Chill, Nat. It was open when it got here,” she said. “And these fell out while I was putting it into her mailbox.” She flipped open the flap and dumped out a short stack of envelopes.

  “What about them?” I asked.

  “They’re addressed to somebody other than Nina Torrone,” Charlene said.

  I picked up one of the envelopes. It was from Sprint, and was addressed to a Jennifer Salinas, at a New York City address.

  “Why is she getting somebody else’s phone bills?”

  “Not just phone bills,” Charlene said. “There’s a postcard here, too.”

  “Weird,” I said, picking up the card. It was addressed to a Jennifer Salinas, and featured a picture of a beach with palm trees and crashing surf. Despite my love of Maine, with the cold weather we’d been having, it looked pretty darned appealing. There was a brief note on the back.

  Miss having you in Padre this year, girlfriend! Call when you’re back in town! XXX OOO Nikki

  “Who’s Jennifer Salinas?”

  “Good question,” Charlene said. “Let’s go see if she’s on Facebook.”

  She headed toward the front of the store, but I grabbed her arm. “That man out there at the end of the bar. Does he live on Seal Point Road?”

  “No,” she said. “He lives in a garage apartment down by the pier. Why?”

  I told her what Frederick had said about Fernand’s secret admirer. “I saw him tearing out of Fernand’s street the other day—just before we found out the house had been broken into.”

  Charlene pursed her frosted lips. “Do you really think he broke into Fernand’s house? Why would he have? Fernand was dead.”

  “Yes, but Frederick told me whoever was stalking Fernand wrote letters.”

  “And he didn’t say who it was?”

  “Not to Frederick,” I said. “And not to anyone else, either—or at least not that I know. I was thinking whoever broke into his house might have been after the letters. If whoever it was was married, I could see how they could be pretty incriminating.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Charlene said, and I followed her to the front of the store, where her desktop computer sat. Both of us shot furtive glances at Rob Perkins. He was a thirtyish man with scraggly hai
r and rubber boots that came up to his knees. Could he really have been Fernand’s admirer? I wondered. “Is he married?” I whispered.

  “Not that I know of,” Charlene said, reaching for one of the ricotta muffins I’d brought. “These are to die for,” she said as she bit into one of the plump little cakes and settled herself at the stool in front of her computer. A few crumbs dropped onto her ample chest, and she brushed them off. She wore leggings and a sparkly green tunic today, and as usual, was garnering appreciative glances from the two men nearest the register.

  “You look just like Christmas,” one of them told her.

  “Thanks, Al,” she said, smiling. “Let me know when you need a refill.”

  “Will do,” he said. “Although I could use something a bit stronger than coffee,” he said.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You’ll have to bring a flask.” While Al and his friend seemed to light up at the sight of Charlene—a not uncommon occurrence on the island—I noticed that Rob barely looked up. I filed that away and turned my attention to the computer screen.

  “Let’s see here,” Charlene said, pulling up Facebook and typing in “Jennifer Salinas.”

  There was quite a list of results, unfortunately.

  “Can’t you refine the search geographically?” I asked.

  She hit the button marked “Advanced Search” and typed in “New York.”

  Only one entry popped up.

  “Bingo,” Charlene said.

  “Is her profile locked?” I asked, peering at the entry. I could tell the profile picture was of a young woman, but it was too small to tell anything by.

  “Her public ‘wall’ is,” Charlene said.

  “What’s a ‘wall’?”

  “That’s where she updates her status and people can comment,” Charlene said. “Really, Natalie—you should think about doing a page for the inn.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. I was hopelessly behind on the electronic frontier, and hated the reminder. “Can you find anything out?”

  “I can’t get into her wall, but it looks like I might be able to see her photos.”

  She clicked on photos, and an album turned up. “Bingo,” Charlene said. The first three were a blurry series of group shots, but the fourth was a picture of a young woman with long, dark hair and a NY Jets sweatshirt.