Final Settlement

by Vicki Doudera

  I could tell you it was friggin’ eighty degrees outside and sunny and you’d nod your foolish noggin, she thought. She frowned out the window.

  The sky was a battleship gray color, and everything had that hunkered-down look she remembered of Maine winters. Not much snow to speak of—Bitsy had expected more—and what there was lay scattered in frozen patches on the iron-hard ground.

  The cab whizzed by a diner with a black and red neon sign from the 1950s and Bitsy had a stab of recognition. Miller’s, the place with the rude waitresses, sinful fruit pies, and impossibly long lines come summer. She allowed herself to smile. It had been a favorite destination for her and Chuck. The ferry from the island, and then the ride to Miller’s. Maybe a stop or two at some antiques shops, and then the comfortable drive and ferry ride back home. Such a simple way to spend an afternoon, and yet it had been so satisfying.

  When had those outings turned from delightful to deadly? Bitsy couldn’t pinpoint the moment. It had been a gradual creeping of dissatisfaction, like a coastal fog, that had insinuated its way into their marriage. Well, maybe not the marriage, Bitsy admitted. Just me.

  She glanced at her watch, a tiny diamond-encrusted face on a thin gold band. Four o’ clock. She’d just make the ferry, if the driver hustled. And if he didn’t, she’d be sitting for another hour in Mana-tuck. She pulled a twenty dollar bill from her wallet and waved it in his rearview mirror. “Faster,” she urged him, jiggling the bill as an enticement.

  He smiled and bobbed his head. A reassuring increase in the cab’s speed gave Bitsy hope. Perhaps this time her eager driver had understood.

  _____

  The village of Hurricane Harbor consisted of a tiny shingled office that sold tickets for the ferry, a café, a bar, and the impressive Hurricane Harbor Inn, an old wooden structure with wide porches and, in the summer, rocking chairs that invited guests to pause and relax. The bar’s weathered sign read The Eye of the Storm, but locals just called it “The Eye.” Likewise, the Hurricane Harbor Café, which sold flavored coffee and pastries, sandwiches and potato chips, was known simply as “the Café.”

  Darby walked briskly by these familiar landmarks, intent on catching the ferry and keeping warm at the same time. She met the eyes of the ticket seller, who waved her toward the waiting boat. “Buy your ticket over to the other side,” he yelled, opening the door but a crack. “I’m already closed up for the day.”

  Darby stepped on the slick walkway and climbed gingerly onto the ferry. Unlike the warmer months, when the outside seating areas were full of camera-toting tourists, the decks in February were bare of riders. Two ferry workers scurried about, untying lines and stowing fenders, while the captain waited patiently to begin backing up the vessel. Darby did not envy them their jobs in the frigid cold. She hurried inside to the heated cabin and took a seat by a window.

  A mother and a baby sat across from her, the baby so bundled it looked like a plump fleece sausage. The woman smiled at Darby, a quick smile of pride, and continued rocking the child and humming a tuneless little song.

  The boat gave a small lurch and began backing away from the dock. Darby remembered countless rides on this ferry—trips to go school shopping with her mother, journeys to the Manatuck boatyard with her dad. She remembered, too, the night she stole her Aunt Jane Farr’s truck and drove it onto the ferry to Manatuck, beginning a painful solo ride to the West Coast and a new life.

  She closed her eyes. The events of the past few months—coming back to Hurricane Harbor and facing Jane just before she died; meeting Tina, who had been her aunt’s capable assistant; and making peace with her parents’ disappearance in a sailing accident—all this had happened so recently that Darby had not yet adjusted. Just when she’d thought the difficult work was behind her, she’d discovered information regarding her Japanese grandfather and his involvement in World War II atrocities. None of it had been easy.

  She opened her eyes and regarded her reflection in the boat’s window. Long, straight black hair, parted simply down the middle, and a heart-shaped face with a little bow mouth. According to Chief Dupont, she resembled her mother, Jada Farr. Darby sighed, wondering when she would see wrinkles around her gently curved eyes, and tried to remember her mother’s lovely face. But she had died so young …

  Darby shook off the sadness and thought about the task at hand. The ferry would dock in Manatuck a good mile from the Break-water. She’d grab a taxi, ask the driver to return in an hour’s time, and canvass the Breakwater neighborhood. Perhaps someone would know something about Lorraine Delvecchio’s last walk.

  Fifteen minutes later, the ferry docked in Manatuck, and Darby emerged into the dim light. The gray-shingled ferry terminal was surrounded by a jaunty white picket fence, although the effect was not as cheery as in warmer weather. Darby knew that her Aunt Jane had helped fund the building’s construction, which had once been little more than a shack.

  A yellow taxicab pulled up before the terminal and a sturdy blonde in a white mink stepped out. Darby watched as the driver removed two enormous zebra-printed suitcases from the trunk. The blonde woman paid him, and turned to wheel her luggage toward the ferry. Darby flagged the driver and asked if he was free to take a new passenger. The cabbie, a tall dark man with a big smile, nodded enthusiastically and Darby climbed in.

  _____

  Half an hour later, Donny Pease glanced up from his beer and out one of the bar’s grimy windows and did a double-take. Marching past Hurricane Harbor’s local hangout was a short woman with platinum blonde hair, pulling two large suitcases behind her. The wheels on her luggage were slipping on the road’s icy surface, and Donny expected that at any moment the woman would slide as well. Although only five o’ clock, the sky was rapidly darkening and slick spots would be difficult to see. He groaned and fished several dollars out of his pocket.

  “Where you headed?” asked Earl, the new bartender at The Eye.

  Donny jerked his head in the direction of the window. “Some fool’s out there trying to walk up to the Inn with her luggage,” he said. “Figure I’ll jump on my white horse and go rescue her before she falls and gets her fur coat all dirty.”

  Earl wiped a beer glass and snorted. “Is Tina aware you’re rescuing damsels in distress?”

  “Nah. She’s Little Miss Real Estate Agent now. Too busy to know what I’m doing.” It came out harsher than he intended, but Earl didn’t seem to notice.

  “Tell her I’m looking for some land when you get a chance. Woods, maybe with a little farm pond. Course I don’t have much to spend …”

  Donny nodded, knowing he’d forget to give Tina this hot lead. He grabbed his jacket off the adjacent barstool. “See you later.”

  “Saturday, right? For the big day?”

  Again Donny nodded. He still wasn’t sure just who Tina had invited to their wedding. Guess I’ll find out when I get there, he thought.

  Outside, the temperature was dropping, and Donny zipped up his jacket as he hopped into his truck. He scanned the street and spotted the woman and her bulky striped bags. He started the engine and turned the heat on full blast.

  “Care for a ride to the Inn?” He’d slowed down and lowered the window, hoping the woman didn’t think he was a stalker or something.

  “I’m not going to the Inn,” she snapped, keeping her eyes on the icy road.

  “Well, where are you going? I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  She slid her eyes toward the truck suspiciously. “Yeah, I’m sure you would.”

  Donny felt the color rise to his cheeks. Of all the nerve! “Listen lady, I was just trying to be nice. Have it your way. Hoof it to wherever the heck you’re going, and slip on that ice to boot.”

  He was about to rev the motor and speed down the street when he heard an ungodly squeal, like the sound a pig makes when it starts to panic.

  “Don-eee?”

  The sound was coming from the blonde woman, and it sounded a lot like his name.

  “Donny Pease,
is that you?”

  He turned his eyes toward the shrieks and threw the truck into park. “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s me! Bitsy Carmichael. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Donny!” She’d stopped and turned to face the truck, her white fur reminding him of the polar bears he saw on the Nature Channel. “Bitsy, from Quarry Road.” She gave a naughty chuckle. “And the homecoming dance?”

  Christ Almighty. Donny inhaled sharply and peered at the blonde’s reddened face. Was this truly the youngest, shortest, and most obnoxious of the seven Carmichael girls? The one named “Betsy” but always called “Bitsy” because of her stature?

  “Bitsy! What in the world brings you back to Hurricane Harbor?”

  She threw a penetrating stare in his direction. “Why, this is my home, Donny.” She shivered and looked at the truck with longing. “I’m freezing my butt off. Give me a lift to my house?”

  He opened his cab door and trotted around the truck, minding the ice as he did so. She stood with her hands on her hips, making little stomping movements in an attempt to generate warmth. Her blonde hair looked brittle up close, as if it would crack like a bunch of skinny icicles between his fingers.

  “Bitsy.” Donny stood awkwardly. Did he hug her? Kiss her? What exactly did one do in situations like this? He hefted the two zebra-striped suitcases up and placed them in the bed of the truck.

  “Why, you picked up those bags like they were nothing,” she gushed. “Looks like I brought a lot, but I am planning on staying, maybe for good.”

  Donny felt his mouth grow dry. This was a turning point in the island’s history, he just knew it. Later, he would look back and see that this moment, when he decided to give Bitsy Carmichael a ride, was significant. But what could he do right now, standing here like a fool in the single-digit temperatures? He couldn’t exactly dump her in the harbor, now could he? The image of Lorraine Delvecchio’s sodden corpse came to mind, giving him a sick sensation in his gut. He swallowed and yanked open the truck’s passenger door.

  Bitsy looked at the truck’s floor and back at her little stomping feet. Donny’s stomach tightened. She can’t climb in without a boost. Not with those little legs, even with the ridiculously high-heeled boots she was trying to walk in. This was never a problem for Tina, who was long-legged and strong as a man, not to mention stubborn. Even if Tina were a short gal, she’d find a way to climb in herself, he was sure of that.

  Not Bitsy.

  “Now, don’t be bashful, Donny. Give me a push right on the rear end.”

  He frowned. Just keep your hands on her sides, he told himself. You’re safe if you stay on the sides …

  Donny licked his lips and rested his hands lightly on her hips. She had a deep, musky scent—not unpleasant, but noticeable. Taking a breath, he shoved the fur-clad figure forward, maybe a tad too forcefully. Bitsy squealed and popped into the cab like a cork. Before she could utter a word, he’d slammed her door shut and marched around the vehicle to the driver’s side.

  “Thank God it’s warm in here,” Bitsy Carmichael breathed as he settled into his seat. “I’m not used to the cold anymore.”

  Donny gave a vague nod. Two days before his wedding and he was with the girl who’d been his first love. He felt that sick, sinking feeling again. Please God, don’t let her bring it up.

  He concentrated on where he was headed with Bitsy. “N-no Carmichaels live on Quarry Road these days,” he stuttered. In fact, did any Carmichaels live anywhere on Hurricane Harbor?

  “I know that, silly,” she said softly. “Most of my sisters are dead, and the two that aren’t live out of state.” She gave him a bright smile. “I’m going home, to my house.”

  Suddenly he recognized the real danger of Bitsy Carmichael’s reappearance. How could he have been so stupid, focusing only on that part of her past history that involved him? Because you’re a sixty-year-old fool, he chastised himself. You’ve got an ego the size of Baxter State Park.

  “Middle Road.” Her voice had a brittle edge to it. “Before it’s absolutely pitch black, if you don’t mind.”

  Donny crept forward, up the hill and past the Hurricane Harbor Inn, his stomach churning with anxiety. “Does he know?” he asked carefully. “Does the …”

  “He’ll find out.” The clipped words showed no trace of the coy tone she’d used earlier. Donny drove on, hoping he would not need to pull over and lose his lunch.

  FOUR

  DARBY WALKED UP THE path to a tidy little cape. A new home, it had been constructed on a small patch of land that Darby remembered as an empty, weedy lot. Inside, twinkling indoor lights cast a welcoming glow, despite the cold and darkness.

  She turned to see the view from the front of the house. The Breakwater was visible, but it was too far to see much of anything. Why had the woman who’d answered her last phone call invited Darby to visit? Probably just looking for company, Darby thought.

  She sighed and knocked on the door. Jet lag was beginning to take its toll.

  A tall woman wearing a cabled sweater in a soft blue color answered immediately. She peered at Darby through round glasses and then smiled.

  “You must be Darby. Come in, come in. I’m Alison Dyer. Welcome to my home.”

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” Darby entered, then removed her boots and looked around. The home was snug, furnished in a relaxed country style with a fire crackling in the hearth. Darby moved instinctively toward its warmth. “This is a lovely little place.”

  “Thank you. Please, sit down.” Alison indicated a wing-backed chair by the fireplace. “May I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just brewed some, and I’m afraid I don’t drink anything stronger than that.”

  “Tea would be wonderful.”

  Darby glanced up at the fireplace mantel where a painting of several ornate townhouses, reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans, graced the wall. Looking around Darby noted another painting, this one of a jazz band, and another depicting a sleepy bayou.

  Alison Dyer bustled into the room with a black tray holding a small teapot, two china cups, and a plate of sugar cookies. She set it on a small table and took a seat.

  “I’m pouring you an unusual tea that has become one of my favorites,” Alison said, as the steaming liquid flowed from the teapot into the cups. Darby inhaled and caught the scents of hibiscus, apple, and orange.

  “It smells heavenly.” She picked up the cup and sniffed. Rosehips. A taste revealed another surprise—the flavor of rhubarb cream. She took another tiny sip. “Delicious.”

  “I love this particular tea.” Alison lifted her cup and drank. “Although technically it isn’t a tea, but a tisane.” She smiled. “It’s definitely one of my favorite kinds, and it has an interesting name.”

  Darby’s next taste gave her the final clue. “It’s Blue Eyes, isn’t it?”

  “Why yes.” Alison put down her china cup and looked at Darby, astonished. “I’m surprised that you know it. You’ve had it before, then?”

  “Only once, with a British friend.” She thought quickly of Miles and felt her cheeks grow warm again. “The taste that I remembered as being so distinctive is the cornflower, and of course that’s partly where the tea gets its name.”

  “Of course.”

  Alison was clearly startled by her identification of the herbal tea, not knowing Darby possessed an unusual gift: a remarkable palate memory. She stared intently, until the young woman felt compelled to change the subject.

  “Did you purchase the tea on one of your trips to New Orleans?”

  “Ah, my artwork has given me away. Yes, there is a wonderful tearoom in the French Quarter called Royal Blend Coffee and Tea House. I make it a point to visit there and stock up whenever I’m in New Orleans.”

  “You go there often, then?”

  Alison nodded. “I’m involved with a group helping to build low-

  income housing. I head down to Louisiana probably four or five times a year.” She took a sip. “It was one
of the two big things I wanted to do in my retirement. I’m a former college professor—English literature.” She smiled. “The shelves of books in my den would have revealed that part of my past, I’m afraid.”

  Darby grinned. “Tell me about your other passion. You said you had two.”

  “Come with me and I’ll show you. Bring your tea if you’d like.”

  She led Darby into the kitchen of the cape, a small but functional space with the usual appliances and a large picture window overlooking a yard dotted with birdfeeders. A round café-style table was placed in front of the window, two chairs on either side. In the distance, Darby could dimly make out the shape of the jutting Manatuck Breakwater.

  “This is my baby,” Alison said, pointing to a device that looked like a small telescope. It lay on a wooden table in the corner by the window. She picked it up reverently.

  “It’s a spotting scope, made by Zeiss,” she whispered. “I waited two years before I’d let myself spend the money and get it.” She gave a wicked grin. “It cost thousands of dollars, but it’s worth every darn penny, I’ll tell you that.”

  “It must be amazing for bird watching,” Darby said, wishing it weren’t dark so she could test the spotting scope herself.

  “You wouldn’t believe it!” Alison set the instrument down. “I take it with me on my birding excursions, but it’s also great to look at the wildlife right here.” Behind the round glasses, her blue eyes were keen. “And of course, keep track of the action on the Breakwater.”

  Darby gazed into the darkness, feeling her heart beat a little faster. “Tell me more. Did you see something unusual yesterday?”

  Alison lifted her eyebrows. “This is where I have lunch,” she said, indicating the round table with a sweep of her arm. “I make myself something and sit down at 11:45 on the dot.” She pointed to a clock hanging above the table. “I’m a punctual person, and I like to keep my schedule the same whenever possible.”