Final Settlement

by Vicki Doudera

  “That’s ludicrous! You don’t have any proof.”

  “In fact, we do,” Darby said. “We have evidence that you were making payments to her …”

  “Impossible! I only paid her in cash …” he stopped, put a hand to his sunburned nose, and looked stunned. “I mean …”

  “Why was she blackmailing you?” Darby’s voice was insistent.

  He raised his head, his face forlorn. “She took advantage of a stupid mistake.”

  Miles glanced at Darby. This was what they’d been hoping for.

  “She had photos,” Bartholomew Anderson said, his voice weary. “Of me and another woman. I don’t know how she got them, but she threatened to take them to my wife.”

  “Unless you paid up,” Miles offered.

  The attorney gave a resigned nod. He opened a file drawer and pulled out a folder, tossing it to Darby. “It doesn’t matter who it was, or that it was five years ago. Dolores would have been crushed.”

  She opened the folder. Inside were several glossy full page prints of a man and woman embracing, the same images Darby had seen on the drive. She placed the photos back in the folder.

  “How did you get these?”

  “From Lorraine’s house. As soon as I heard she was dead, I went over there and searched for them.” He looked up. “They weren’t

  even hard to find. Right in her desk, as if they were a file of recipes.” His face darkened. “You can’t imagine how difficult it was for me to see that woman every single day prancing down that pier.” He pointed out the window with a shaking hand. “I had to watch her park her car and give that smug little smile …”

  He turned to face them. “I hated her, of course I did. In case you’re wondering.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell your wife?” Darby asked. “These photos would have had no power if she’d known.”

  “Have you ever been married, Darby?” He glanced from her to Miles. “You think things like affairs are easy in a marriage?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell Dolores. It would have destroyed us—our family, my career …” he gave a harsh sigh. “I have a reputation in this city. These stupid photos would have ruined me.”

  “But your face isn’t even recognizable.” Darby pointed at one of the images.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Bartholomew Anderson said darkly. “They would still have shattered my life.”

  There was a pause before Miles spoke again, his voice clear and firm.

  “Where were you on the day Lorraine died?”

  “What? You can’t think I did anything to harm her!” His face showed shock. “She fell off that Breakwater, everyone knows that.”

  Darby gave the attorney a piercing gaze. “Someone pushed Lorraine Delvecchio,” she said quietly. “Another figure was seen on the Breakwater. Was it you?”

  “No! You’ve got to believe me. I’m not that kind of person.”

  “Then where were you?”

  Darby tensed as Bartholomew Anderson opened a desk drawer and pulled something out. She pictured a heavy revolver …

  He lifted an appointment book. “Wednesday? Why, I was here, at my desk, working.” He squinted. “Billed some clients by the name of Wilson, if you must know.” He closed the book with a thump, looking pleased. “There!”

  “Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?” Miles queried.

  “My secretary, of course. She’s here when I’m here, naturally.”

  Darby glanced at Miles. “Does she take a lunch break?”

  “Of course. But I don’t see why that matters.”

  “If she left at noon, she wasn’t here when Lorraine was killed. You could have seen Lorraine coming and met her at the end of the pier.”

  “Are you saying that I ran out there and pushed her off? Excuse me, but I’m not exactly an Olympic athlete.” He rose to his feet as if displaying his generously proportioned physique. “Look, I did not kill that girl. I don’t think anyone did. I think she simply fell off the end of the Breakwater and drowned.” He fingered the file with the photographs. “And do you know what else I think? I think she got exactly what she deserved.”

  “One more question,” Darby said. “Who is the woman in the photographs?”

  The look he gave her was resigned, all the bluster seemingly gone. “Someone I met many summers ago,” he said softly. He licked his lips. “Babette Applebaum.”

  Darby and Miles shared a quick glance. “Was Lorraine blackmailing her as well?”

  The attorney shook his head. “No. That’s the one part of this whole sordid mess that doesn’t cause me shame. For some reason, Lorraine left her alone.”

  Miles and Darby rose from their chairs, leaving the lawyer staring out the window at the Manatuck Breakwater lot.

  _____

  “So?” Miles asked Darby as they waited for her ferry. “Do you think he pushed that girl?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I think he hated Lorraine with a passion, but I just don’t see him running a mile out there, shoving her, and running back. Physically I don’t think he could have done it. What about you?”

  “I agree.” He sighed. “If Lorraine didn’t know Babette, it’s unlikely she had anything to do with her murder. That leaves ‘TD’ and ‘CR’, right?”

  Darby nodded. She glanced in the direction of the water and saw that the ferry was chugging into view. “You know what, Miles? It’s not easy to care about Lorraine Delvecchio’s killer. The woman was vile.”

  “Even vile people deserve justice, don’t they? Besides, you aren’t doing it for her. You’re doing it because Chief Dupont asked for your help.”

  “Correct.” She reached for Miles and gave him a fierce hug. “Remind me of that when you call, okay? I’m liable to lose sight of my motives here without you.”

  “You won’t lose sight of anything,” Miles assured her. “Just promise me one thing: you’ll keep yourself safe.”

  “I will.” She kissed him, long and hard, inhaling the bayberry scent she loved.

  He grinned.

  “You’ve got the next visit, remember?”

  “I’m already looking forward to it.” She grabbed her pocketbook and turned to board the ferry. Overhead a gull shrieked in the cold sky. “I love you.”

  He grinned again, his rugged face becoming boyish. “Ditto,” he said.

  _____

  Darby watched as Miles steered his rental car out of the ferry parking lot. Already she missed the tall Brit’s comforting presence, but she pushed aside her thoughts to focus on what she knew about Lorraine Delvecchio’s death.

  She was a blackmailer of at least five people. Three of them—Alcott Bridges, Leonard Marcus, and Bartholomew Anderson—had been eliminated as suspects. Darby thought about the two other victims. What connections could she make with Lorraine and the initials? Was there anyone who might have had an inkling about the woman’s acquaintances?

  Two of her employers—Dr. Hotchkiss and Chief Dupont—were now deceased, but presumably whoever she worked for at the Manatuck Police Department was still there. She popped up from her seat. “I’ve changed my mind,” she explained to the dockhand. “I’m getting off.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Couple of minutes later and you would have been swimming.”

  Darby hustled off the ferry and made her way through the snowy parking lot. Ahead of her loomed Manatuck Community Hospital where her Aunt Jane Farr had been a patient. Darby thrust her hands deep in her pockets and kept walking. The police station was only a few blocks away.

  The imposing brick building was modern, with large glass windows and a sophisticated video surveillance system at the revolving front door. In a nod to the past, there was a large granite block with an engraved dedication thanking Manatuck’s veterans of past wars. Darby glanced at it and hurried in.

  The building was open, but largely deserted, in deference to the memory of Charles Dupont. A peek at a directory indicated the offices for several departments, including homicide. Darby n
oted Detective Robichaud’s name. Perhaps this is where I should start, she thought.

  The tall man looked up as she knocked on his open door.

  “Darby? Come on in.” He pushed a pile of papers to the floor. “Beautiful service for Chief Dupont, wasn’t it?”

  “I think his family was very touched.”

  “Good.” He sighed. “It’s tough on all of us. He’ll be missed on the island and in Manatuck, too.” He shook his head. “I figured that my place was here, let some of the younger officers take the afternoon off. What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but I wanted to talk about Lorraine Delvecchio’s death, and I wasn’t sure who’s handling the investigation.”

  “Darby,” he said gently. “There is no investigation. That poor woman slipped to her death.”

  “I think you know that Chief Dupont did not believe it was accidental.”

  “Yeah, Charles and I discussed it a few times. She had this superior memory condition that he felt might have made her some enemies.”

  “That’s right. In fact, at least five people had motives to kill her.”

  “Really?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “A ledger in her home showed that Lorraine was blackmailing five people. We’ve identified three of them: Alcott Bridges, Leonard Marcus, and Bartholomew Anderson.”

  “No way. I can see Marcus, but Bridges and Attorney Anderson?”

  Darby nodded. “Bridges couldn’t have killed her. He was too frail, and I don’t think Anderson has the physical stamina, either. The other two …” she hesitated.

  “Yes? Who are they?”

  “I’m not sure. One’s initials are ‘TD’, and the other is ‘CR’ .”

  “Initials? Their full names weren’t mentioned?”

  “That’s right.” She paused, hoping her explanation did not sound silly. “She referred to all of her blackmailing victims by initials.”

  “I see.” He thought a few moments. “This is the first time I’ve heard about a ledger. I assume it’s with Chief Dupont’s things?”

  “No,” Darby said. “I have it.”

  He frowned. “To think that she was blackmailing people, right under our noses …”

  “Do you think this means she might have been murdered?”

  “I have to say, no, it doesn’t change my opinion of how she died. Did some people have motives to kill her? Apparently so. No one who gets blackmailed is happy about it, I’ll tell you that. Did they kill her? No, because this was not a homicide. She lost her footing,

  hit her head, and drowned, with hypothermia as a contributing factor. No one pushed her, Darby. She slipped and died, end of story. Her death was ruled accidental. Charles Dupont didn’t want to accept it, but it’s the truth.”

  She remained silent.

  “Listen,” his voice was gentle. “I think Chief Dupont felt a little guilty …”

  “Guilty? Why?”

  “Because of how he terminated Lorraine.”

  “You mean he fired her?”

  “Basically, yes. He lined her up with this job, but I know the Chief was worried that she knew the real reason.”

  “But he was satisfied with her work, at least that’s what he always said.”

  Detective Robichaud gave a tiny smile. “There was another reason, Darby. She made a pass at him.”

  “Lorraine?”

  “Yeah. When he lost all that weight, she came on to him, and it freaked him out. He told her she needed to transfer.”

  Darby shook her head. Had guilt over Lorraine’s change of jobs been at the root of Chief Dupont’s insistence that Lorraine had been murdered? She swallowed. Why hadn’t he mentioned the real reason she’d transferred?

  “I don’t know what to say. Chief Dupont was convinced her death was no accident.”

  Dave Robichaud tapped a finger on a file. “I know. Sometimes we all pursue wild goose chases.” He stood up. “Tell you what, I’m going to follow up on this blackmailing angle anyway. I’ll want to see that ledger, too. Any idea who ‘TD’ and ‘CR’ might be?”

  “No.” She rose to her feet, her head spinning with the new information. “Thanks for listening, Detective Robichaud. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”

  “Please don’t feel like that,” he said, walking her to the door. “Charles was your friend. I hope he knew how lucky he was.”

  _____

  “You need to get some exercise,” Tina said, when Darby called her from the Hurricane Harbor dock and relayed her conversation with the detective. “You’re starting to sound overwhelmed, and I’m worried about you. When was the last time you went for a run, or even a walk for that matter?”

  Tina had a point. Back in Mission Beach, Darby was a devoted runner, logging several miles a day. But in the frozen landscape that was Hurricane Harbor in February, she had barely moved a muscle.

  “I danced at your wedding.” She didn’t mention her other forms of exercise with Miles.

  Tina snorted. “Whoop-de-do. Give that girl a medal.” She paused. “Seriously—there’s about two hours left of daylight. How ’bout you borrow my snowshoes and go for a little hike? Good way to get rid of stress, and God knows we’ve all had enough of that.”

  Darby considered. The sun was still warm on her cheeks, even though the air was freezing. Perhaps some time outdoors would clear the thoughts rattling through her brain. The Chief, Lorraine Delvecchio, Miles’s departure … it was all too much at once.

  “Good idea. Where do I find them?”

  “They’re just inside the front door,” Tina said. “Key’s under the mat. You can go right up that hill behind the house, if you want. Donny hikes up there all the time. Says it keeps him limber.”

  “Juniper Ridge?”

  “Nah, the easy one in front of it … Raven Hill.”

  Darby pictured the broad mound behind Tina’s split-level ranch. “My parents and I used to picnic up there. Should I take Rosie, give Bitsy a little break?”

  “Nope. I’ve got her with me here at Donny’s house, and she’s out like a light. Played fetch with a tennis ball for about an hour at lunchtime.” Tina sighed. “Hey, Terri’s coming over for dinner later on, Bitsy too, hopefully. Donny’s going to be at The Eye for a dart tournament, so it’s just us girls. Want to come? You can thaw out from your snowshoe with a glass of wine.”

  “Sure. I’ll bring some.”

  “Great. Have a good walk and I’ll see you around six.”

  Darby drove to Tina’s little ranch. The house was modest, but Tina had taken good care of it, and it would make the young family purchasing the property at the end of the month a nice home. She found the key, unlocked the door, and grabbed the snowshoes. Right away she saw that her long red coat was too bulky to move comfortably in. She took it off and found a lighter jacket in a powder blue shade in her friend’s neat closet.

  Darby zipped the jacket and pulled her wool hat over her ears. She locked the door, hid the key, and stepped into the snowshoes. After adjusting them to fit her feet, she began trudging across the lawn to the back yard.

  The sun was still bright off the white expanse of snow and Darby wished she’d remembered her sunglasses. She walked with an easy gait, the snowshoes plunking softly in the snow, her arms swinging loosely at her sides. There was only a faint trail to follow, but Darby wasn’t concerned. It was impossible to get lost on Raven Hill.

  The climb was gentle. When Darby reached the top fifteen minutes later, she stopped and considered Juniper Ridge. A craggy series of peaks with sheer granite faces, the Ridge was an extremely challenging climb in the summer. Now, however, those same smooth surfaces were coated with several feet of snow, changing the landscape so drastically that Darby decided to give it a try.

  She began the ascent. Right away it was evident that this climb would get her heart pumping. She smiled, feeling the burn in her thighs. Shoeing up the rugged face of Juniper Ridge—or however far she made i
t—would be an accomplishment.

  The snow was the perfect consistency under her feet—firm, but yielding, cold enough that it did not clump on her snowshoes nor so powdery that it flew into her face. She let out a long sigh of pleasure as she took a big step and hoisted herself up a snow-covered rock. It felt good to be exercising in the cold, so different from her early morning runs in Mission Beach, California, where it was almost always a sunny seventy degrees or so.

  The sun was dropping lower in the sky and Darby stopped and glanced at her watch. Nearly four p.m. Darkness was coming later to Maine—finally—as winter’s grip on the northeastern state lessened. I’ve got about an hour before it starts getting dark, she reasoned, wondering if she should turn back toward Tina’s house now.

  She allowed herself a few minutes of stillness to admire the view. The ocean was just visible, a thin ribbon of blue stretching over the tops of the scrub pines. Up ahead there was a considerable climb to a spot where the view would be spectacular. I’ll go up, take a look, and then hustle down. It will be totally worth it.

  The ascent up the knobby face took ten minutes, but Darby had been correct about the vista. The ocean, a cold, dark blue dotted with whitecaps, surrounded the rocky island’s perimeter of spruces. It was breathtaking, and Darby said a silent prayer for the majesty that surrounded her.

  She took a deep breath and smelled the pine-scented air. This was what she missed most about living in San Diego, this easy access to unpopulated nature. In California there were plenty of trails, but they were always dotted with people. She missed Maine’s wildness, the many miles of untamed spaces that were the norm, not the exception. She longed for rolling hills without fancy ranch homes scarring the land, or cell phone towers, or billboards. I miss Maine, she realized. I miss home.

  Darby gave a quick shiver. Her body was cooling down, and the light blue jacket felt thin and insubstantial against the lowering temperatures. It was time to get moving before she got a serious chill. She took one more look at the ocean, and then turned to glance down at her path up the hill.

  A shape was moving toward her. A man.

  He was moving quickly, running at a fast clip, closing the gap of maybe one hundred yards with rapid speed. He wore a bulky dark jacket, dark pants, and something black on his face.