Final Settlement

by Vicki Doudera

  She whirled around. A tall man in an elegantly fitted tuxedo stood before her, his rugged face wearing a shy smile.

  “Miles! You made it!” She sprang to her feet.

  He pulled her close and she inhaled the faint bayberry scent of his skin. “Darby Farr, you look totally amazing. How is it that each time I see you, you’re more beautiful than I remember?”

  She blushed and looked into his warm eyes. “Where in the world have you been, and how did you get here? Sit down and tell me everything.”

  “It’s a rather boring story. I’ll tell you quickly, but only if you promise to dance with me.”

  “Miles Porter, you drive a hard bargain.” She pretended to consider his request. “Deal.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat down, his long legs nearly touching the pink velvet of her dress. They were in the elegantly appointed ballroom of the Hurricane Harbor Inn, snug and safe against the tall snowdrifts outside.

  “Okay, a brief telling of my travels. I spent Thursday night in O’Hare, huddled on some plastic seats with a whole horde of stranded people, many of whom tended to snore, and quite loudly, too. First thing the next morning, I rented one of the few remaining cars left in Chicago and began driving. I was at it all day yesterday, only stopping when I couldn’t see the road anymore. I passed a fairly miserable night in a drafty little motel in New Hampshire. And now here I am.”

  “You drove through the blizzard?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I lost my bloody cell phone at the airport, or believe me, I would have rang you up a few times. I hope you didn’t worry too much?”

  Darby bit her lip. The truth was, she’d been distracted by Kenji Miyazaki—although she had tried to phone.

  “You’re a big boy,” she said lightly. “I figured anyone who could report from the world’s worst war zones could handle a few flakes of snow.” She raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “Besides, there’s been some excitement around here.”

  Miles leaned in closer. “Aha! Lorraine Delvecchio? Do tell.”

  Darby related the new questions surrounding the woman’s death, the suspicious person Alison Dyer had spotted on the Breakwater, and the strange notations in the little spiral notebook. She then told him about Kenji’s arrival on the island and his cracking of the Caesar cipher.

  “Whoa, who’s this fellow?” Miles’s brow was furrowed. “I don’t think I like the idea of a strange man appearing out of nowhere.”

  Darby felt her cheeks flush. “He didn’t exactly come out of nowhere,” she said. “He works with a client of mine, Hideki Kobayashi. Kenji was here in Maine for a snowboarding competition, but he’s been calling my office in San Diego for months. The curator of the art museum in Westerly gave him my number …”

  Miles held up a hand, traffic policeman style. “As much as I want to hear about all this, I think I’d like to dance with you even more.” He cocked his head in the direction of the music, where the band was starting to play a familiar tune. “Shall we have a toast first?”

  He grinned and reached across the table for a glass of champagne and held it aloft.

  “To wonderful surprises,” Darby said.

  “Indeed.” He touched her glass with his and took a long swallow. “And to my beautiful Valentine on St. Valentine’s Day.” They drank again. “Now, Miss Farr, I’d like the pleasure of a dance.”

  “Oh?” Darby’s face wore a mischievous look. “I have a better idea.”

  She leaned over him in the pink velvet dress, yanking his bow tie in a playful manner, until she had pulled a surprised but delighted Miles out of the hall to a small cloakroom. There, Darby closed and barricaded the doors.

  “This isn’t like you,” he observed in a whisper.

  “I know.” She leaned in to kiss him, and then, all thoughts of the red lacquered box, the spiral notebook, and Kenji Miyazaki’s boyish grin temporarily forgotten, she let go of all caution and gave Miles Porter a wonderful reason to come in from the storm.

  NINE

  AT LEAST THE CHOCOLATE mousse cake is good, thought Bitsy Carmichael, spooning another bite of the decadent dessert into her pink lipsticked mouth. The rest of the dinner had been forgettable—a stuffed chicken breast, cold asparagus spears, and twice-baked potatoes that were so dry they might have been baked three or four times. She sighed and pushed the plate away, glancing to see if anyone was watching. Like the Queen, she hated mere commoners to see her eating.

  Charles was speaking with a tall man, but she saw him glance in her direction and then conclude his conversation. He loped toward the table, a worried look on his lined face.

  “What’s the matter, Bitsy? Aren’t you having fun?”

  “I’d have more fun if you stuck around,” she said, just a touch irritated. She twisted the band of her jewel-encrusted watch. “Who’s that you were talking to?”

  “Scott Fisher, the Manatuck DA. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the Attorney General some day.”

  Who cares, Bitsy thought. Instead she gave a coy smile. “Remember how we used to like to dance, Charlie? What do you say we give it a whirl?” She put a few fingers on the sleeve of his sport coat and tapped lightly. “Come on …”

  He sighed and shook his head, helpless before her fluttering false eyelashes. “Bitsy, it’s been years since I danced. Can’t we just sit here a moment?”

  She rose to her feet and took his hands. “Oh, Chuckie, it all comes back to you.” She squeezed his fingers in a playful manner. She leaned in closer, allowing him a peek down the front of her gold-flecked cashmere sweater. “Just like I said to you the other night,” she purred into his ear. “It all comes right back.”

  Chief Charles Dupont’s face flushed scarlet. He rose to his feet and let her pull him toward the music. “One dance,” he said weakly.

  She widened her eyes, demurely, the smile still playing about her lips. “We’ll see,” she murmured.

  _____

  Across the room, Trixie Dodge nudged her sister. “Terri, who’s that adorable guy with Darby? They’re just coming into the hall. That’s not her husband, is it?”

  Terri shrugged. “I don’t think she’s married,” she said, accepting a glass of sparkling water from the bartender. Her own husband was dancing with their youngest child, a freckle-faced redhead named Tiffany. She looked over her glass at Trixie. “And what about you? Anything romantic that I should know about?”

  The younger woman shook her head. “Nope. But you’ll be the first to know.” She jabbed Terri with an index finger. “Here comes Darby with her stud muffin now.”

  The sisters greeted Darby, giving Miles a curious look.

  “Hello, stranger,” Trixie said. “Who might you be?”

  “This is Miles Porter.” Darby presented him with a grin. “He had a terrible time getting here, but thankfully made it in one piece.”

  “Or so I think,” Miles said, smiling. He stretched out a hand to the sisters. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was lucky enough to meet Tina and Donny the first time I came to Maine. They make a wonderful couple.”

  The three women nodded as they watched Donny twirl Tina into a spin, her long satin gown fanning out in gentle waves.

  “What is it you do for work, Miles?” Terri inquired, sipping her water. She patted her auburn curls with a graceful hand. A large diamond winked from one tapered finger.

  “I’m an investigative journalist,” he said, giving a self-deprecating smile. “Although at present I’m doing some consulting work in Northern California. What about you?”

  “I’m a stay-at-home mom. My youngest is right over there dancing with my husband.”

  “You make yourself sound like you’re such a homebody when that’s not totally true,” Trixie interjected. “What about all the fundraising you do for the Westerly art museum, the hospital, and the library?”

  “Yes, but I think Mr. Porter is talking about paying work.” Terri shrugged. “I’m looking forward to reentering the job market in the near
future. But I have three kids, and my husband—well, we—didn’t think it was a good idea for both of us to be away from our home so much.” She gave an ironic smile. “The funny thing is that my husband ended up spending a lot of time parenting as well, so I could have worked after all.” She brightened. “But that day’s fast approaching. Tiffy’s almost seven, can you believe it?”

  “You’re kidding!” Trixie put down her beer with a thump.

  “Trixie is in the Coast Guard,” Darby offered. “Where did you say you’re based? Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts?”

  “Nantucket. It’s a beautiful island, much bigger than Hurricane Harbor, but just as desolate come winter.” She grinned. “The good news is that spring comes a whole heck of a lot faster.”

  “Oh, rub it in,” Terri said. She pointed at her husband. “Excuse me. I’m going to see if Tiffany will let someone else get a dance or two in.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Darby said. “I’d like to meet another of the redheaded ‘T’ girls.”

  When she and Terri were out of earshot, Darby touched Terri’s arm. “Can I ask you something?”

  The redhead paused and gave her a puzzled glance. “Yes?”

  “Did Eric Thompson mention anything to you about a man named Kenji Miyazaki?”

  “The snowboarder?” She thought a moment. “We didn’t discuss him. Why?”

  “I was just curious.” Darby wasn’t sure what she was after, but she had hoped Terri Dodge would be a source of information. “You didn’t meet him, so …”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t meet him,” Terri corrected. “I said that Eric and I never discussed him. I was introduced to Kenji at a cocktail party—the same one where Eric met him.”

  “I see. Was he with his friend?”

  “What friend?” She frowned. “He doesn’t know anyone in Maine. At least that’s what he said.”

  Darby thought back to Kenji’s mention of a retired friend in Westerly. “He said that a friend had brought him to the party.”

  Terri shook her head. “I knew everyone there—except for Kenji, that is. Believe me, Darby, he came to that gathering alone.” Terri motioned to Tiffany and a trim, tanned man. “Darby, meet my husband, Tripp Dodge, and my youngest child, Tiffany.”

  “It’s great to meet you both.” She shook Tripp’s hand and smiled at the little girl, who was looking with frank curiosity at Darby’s black hair.

  “You have the shiniest hair ever,” she said. “Can I touch it?”

  “May I touch it,” Terri corrected, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry, Darby.”

  Darby laughed. “Sure.” She knelt down. “Can you reach, Tiffany?”

  The little girl stroked the dark strands and smiled. “It’s smooth, like Harold’s fur,” she observed, adding, “Harold is my favorite cat.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that!”

  “We have three kitties, right Tiffy?” Tripp Dodge’s face lit up as he spoke. “Harold is the fattest and the laziest.”

  “He’s not the laziest,” Tiffany corrected, sounding a lot like her mother. “Not when it comes to getting fed!”

  Everyone chuckled and Tiffany ran off to sneak some frosting from the wedding cake.

  “Are your other children here?” Darby asked.

  “No, both the boys are away at boarding school,” Tripp said. He turned to his wife. “Gosh, I do miss them. I wonder if they can re-enroll in Westerly next year? That way they’d be home with us.”

  Terri shook her head. “We’ve been over this, Tripp honey. That would be a giant academic step backward.” She turned to Darby. “Both Tommy and Tyler are doing so well at their private schools in Connecticut. It was a hard decision, sending them away like that, but totally the right one for both of them.” She gazed toward the dessert table where Tiffany was licking her fingers. “When the time comes, I’m sure we’ll do the same with Tiffy.”

  Darby slid her eyes to Tripp’s face. He wore the dejected look of a boy who’s lost his favorite baseball cap.

  Terri smiled brightly, determined to change the mood.

  “Come on, honey. Let’s get in a dance or two at my big sister’s wedding.” She gave Darby a quick smile. “Excuse us.”

  Darby nodded and watched them glide to the dance floor. A moment later, Miles was at her side. “That’s ginger-haired Terri, is it? And her husband?”

  “Yes. Tripp Dodge is his name. Not sure what he does, but Tina hinted that he’s pretty well off.”

  “I should say so,” Miles said. “Charles Dodge, III is his full name, although even in the business world he goes by Tripp. I did a story on the family for the Financial Times awhile back. His grandfather was a chemical engineer who invented a canning process for condensed soup. Needless to say, he made a fortune.”

  “According to Tina, Tripp doesn’t work much.”

  “I dare say he doesn’t have to.”

  Darby thought of Tripp’s face when he spoke of his sons. He’s a family man. I wonder why Terri doesn’t seem to see that?

  _____

  The reception was winding down. Tina and Donny had waved goodbye, and now, wrapped in their winter coats and hats, they hurried, smiling, out the door of the inn and into Donny’s pre-warmed truck.

  Darby felt Miles squeeze her hand. “Where are the lucky newlyweds headed? Bermuda? Jamaica? Somewhere warm and toasty, I trust?”

  “Nova Scotia.”

  “Canada? Surely you’re joking!”

  Darby laughed, seeing Miles’s surprised look. “They both love it up there, plus they are going to Mexico for nearly the whole month of March.” She nudged him. “Doesn’t Nova Scotia sound romantic?”

  “I think it sounds cold!” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Although I’d go to the Arctic if you asked.”

  “How about a little sleuthing instead? I’d like to pay a quick visit to Alcott Bridges, and see if he’ll open up at all about Lorraine Delvecchio. I’m dying to know if the initials in the notebook are his.”

  “Sounds good to me. Do we stop at your house and change first?”

  Darby knew that if she went back to the farmhouse with Miles, she’d have a tough time going back out again into the cold. “No, let’s stop and see him right now. We’re perfectly timed to get the next ferry, and who knows? Maybe our fancy duds will catch him off guard.”

  “Ah yes,” Miles said. “The old, ‘Dress for Duress.’ Works like a charm every time.”

  She giggled, letting him slip her into the long down coat. “Miles Porter, you are a clever one,” she said, zipping it up. “Let’s see just how much information you can get out of Mr. Bridges.”

  “Remind me again of what we’re trying to discover?” He had a long camel’s hair coat, fur hat, and thick gloves.

  “We need to know if Lorraine was blackmailing him,” she said, linking her arm through his. “That and whether he killed her because of it.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said lightly. “Just two easy questions. Lead the way, my dear Darby. Lead the way.”

  _____

  The roads in Manatuck were slick, covered with a thin layer of ice where traffic had melted the snow and it had refrozen. Miles had offered to drive his rental car, but Darby insisted that she take her Jeep. “You’ve got to be sick of driving,” she reasoned. “And this is my home turf.”

  He grinned, watching her handle the slippery roads with ease. “You certainly are a pro,” he said, leaning back on the seat. He sighed. “I hope our visit with Mr. Bridges doesn’t take too long.”

  “It won’t,” Darby said cheerfully. “You’ll see that he’s not a forthcoming kind of guy.”

  “Artists don’t tend to be chatty, now do they? Too many creative impulses rattling around in their brains.” Miles paused. “Tell me more about the dead girl, Lorraine Delvecchio. What sort of person was she?”

  Darby recounted her research of Lorraine’s exceptional autobiographical memory, and Miles nodded slowly.

  “Hyperthymesia,” he said thoughtfu
lly. “What an asset it would be for an extortionist.”

  “Exactly! All the little incriminating things we see but forget? Lorraine remembered those moments.” She slowed as she approached a curve. “I wonder what the connection could be between Alcott and Lorraine?”

  “Didn’t you say that she worked for a doctor? Perhaps Alcott Bridges was a patient.”

  “Could be. Dr. Hotchkiss saw practically everyone in the area, so there’s a good chance he took care of Alcott.” She pulled up in front of the house’s impressive porch. “Here we are,” she said. She regarded the cottage and frowned. “Place looks awfully dark.”

  “Indeed.” Miles climbed out of the Jeep and looked in the garage’s side window. “Car’s still here,” he announced. “No tracks going in or out of the snow. Do you think our artist friend is asleep?”

  “It’s only six o’ clock. Unless he’s not feeling well, why would he be in bed this early? And if he was ill, wouldn’t there be at least one light on?”

  “Maybe he’s one of those very thrifty Yanks.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m concerned. Let’s try to get in.”

  Darby pulled on a pair of tall rubber boots and, tucking the pink velvet dress into them, waded through the unbroken snow to the front door. She jiggled the old brass knob, but it was locked.

  Miles tried a side door that led to the kitchen, but it was locked as well. “I’ll go round back,” he announced, jogging around the corner. Darby waited a moment and then heard him yell her name.

  She followed his trail through the snow to the back door. “Good work, Miles,” she said, following him into the darkened house. They both felt the walls for light switches, with Darby finding one that illuminated the room. “Mr. Bridges?” she called out.

  They were in a small room that Darby had glimpsed earlier with Tina. A low table with a sewing machine, baskets of fabric, yarn, and brocades was before them, along with a faded chintz chair and tall dressmaker’s dummy. On the walls hung several portraits of a serene, smiling woman—the same woman—in various poses and at varying ages.

  “That must be Grace Bridges,” she whispered. “Alcott’s wife. She died about five years ago, I think.”