by Barbara Ross
She looked across the table at Sonny. He knew what my mother wanted, but he’d been a member of the family since he and Livvie had fallen in love in high school, working, laughing, and grieving with us, so he spoke his mind. “It’s no secret. I think Windsholme should be torn down. It’ll be expensive to get the equipment out to the island and haul the trash off, but not as expensive as either of the other options. People come to the island for the clambake. We’ve never used the house as a part of the operation. We don’t need another attraction.” At this last he pulled his head up, looking at my mother straight on.
She nodded to show she had heard. “Livvie.”
Like her husband, Livvie spoke in a low, even voice. “I think Windsholme should be restored. Wyatt says it’s a historic building. And we’re lucky enough to have a living member of the family who was there in the old days and who can help guide the restoration. We can’t count on that much longer.” She meant my mother’s cousin Marguerite, who was in her midnineties. My mother hadn’t known of her existence until the previous winter, and Marguerite hadn’t seen Windsholme in more than eighty years. She’d promised to visit Morrow Island this summer, but no one knew if she’d be up to the trip.
“Restoring is the most expensive route of all. And, it would have to be furnished in period pieces, another expense,” I said.
“You’ll get your turn,” my mother cautioned.
“We have something special. Special to our town, to American architecture, and to our family,” Livvie concluded. “If we lose it, it’s gone forever.”
My mother moved on. “Chris.”
“I’m not a member of the family,” Chris said. “But if you want my opinion, it’s still what it was before Wyatt arrived. Windsholme should be updated so some or all of you can live there comfortably in the summer. Livvie and Sonny’s family fills the little house by the dock. There’s no practical way anyone else can stay overnight.” He looked at me, instead of my mother. “You love Morrow Island, and you’ll want to stay there someday with your own family. You’ve all been given a chance, a one in a million shot, to reclaim this house. Don’t turn it into a dusty museum. Enjoy it as a family. That’s why your ancestors built it.”
My mother allowed a hint of a smile, then wiped it away. She wasn’t fooling anyone. Chris’s opinion most closely matched her own. “Julia.”
I was next to her at the table. She had to angle herself to look at me. The sun had set while we talked, leaving a violet sky visible through the diamond-shaped panes in the high dining room windows. We hadn’t turned on the chandelier and I was grateful for the shadows.
“It’s a hard decision,” I acknowledged. “And I think it’s too early to make it. We don’t have costs yet for any of the three options. When we get them, one or more may turn out to be impossible.”
“We’ll have to pay Wyatt for the study to find out. Twenty thousand dollars,” Mom reminded.
“Wyatt’s or some other firm,” I responded. “I’m not convinced she’s the one. It would be smart to interview more people. But yes, I do think the prudent thing is to go to the next stage, find out what each of the options involves.”
Sonny glared at me. I was supposed to be on his side and was taking the coward’s way out. “If you had to decide today, what would you do?” he demanded. “Put a stake in the ground like the rest of us.”
“If I had to decide today . . .” I hesitated. And then I was saved by the chirping of my cell phone, which I’d left recharging on the buffet. I got up to take a look at the screen. My mother glowered. I wouldn’t normally have answered, but it was Wyatt. She might have something relevant to say about the current discussion. “Excuse me.” I went through the swinging doorway into the kitchen, phone clutched to my ear.
“Julia—” Her voice was shaky and loud.
“Wyatt? Are you all right?”
“No. Please come to the Garbo. Now. Something terrible has happened.”
“Have you called nine-one-one?”
“Not yet. I’m too scared. I called Quentin, but he lives so far away. I need someone quickly.” She was crying, great stuttering gasps. I could barely understand her.
“Wyatt? What’s going on? Talk to me.”
No answer.
“Wyatt, I’m on my way. I’m bringing Chris. Do you want me to call nine-one-one and tell them you’re in trouble?”
“No! No! Just come. As fast as you can. Please.”
* * *
It would take about the same amount of time to drive around the harbor to the other side as it would to run across the footbridge, but after a hurried consult with Chris, we grabbed his pickup. Wyatt might need a ride to the hospital. Chris’s legendary lead foot left tourists scattering as we sped across town.
We ran through Blount’s, down the wooden stairs to the floating dock, and up the Garbo’s gangway.
“Wyatt! Wyatt! Where are you?”
A strangled sound echoed from a deck somewhere above. I spotted her outside the dining salon. We raced to her. She was a wreck. Pale, shaking, crying, clutching her stomach.
“What is it, Wyatt? What’s wrong?”
She straightened up and, silently, still shaking, led us into the dining room. At the head of the table, Geoffrey Bower sat motionless, wearing the same yachtsman’s cap and blue blazer as the day before, his face contorted in a horrible grimace.
Chris ran toward Bower. Wyatt doubled over, hysterical. I took her in my arms. “What’s happened? Tell me.” I looked over her toward Chris, who silently shook his head. I crouched down to meet her eyes. “Wyatt, honey, we need to call nine-one-one. Chris will do it while I stay with you.”
“Geoffrey will hate that,” she whispered. “Hate having all those strangers on board.” She couldn’t go on.
“We have to,” I said firmly. “Let’s go.”
The sooner we got away from that horrible sight, the better. Before we left, I scanned the room, trying to commit everything to memory. There would be lots of questions later. Looking away from Geoffrey and his contorted, jack-o’-lantern grin, I saw the table was laid for a sumptuous cold supper, just as Genevieve had described the night before. The centerpiece was a red lobster body, holding out his claw. Clutched in it was something so surprising, I took a second look to be sure of what I’d seen—a ring with a large, sparkling diamond.
Chapter 10
I hustled Wyatt to the deck as she gulped for air. Behind us, Chris closed the double doors to the dining salon and stood in front of them, arms crossed. I kept moving with Wyatt, down toward the dock. We reached the top of the gangway just as Quentin ran up it. He stared at the bent over, distraught figure of Wyatt. “What’s going on?”
I shook my head, not wanting to describe the gruesome scene in Wyatt’s presence. “Chris is above. He’ll fill you in.” Quentin ran on.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to leave Wyatt under the dock lights where anyone could see her, but we had to stay nearby. We started up the steps toward Blount’s.
Jamie and Officer Howland were the first to arrive. “Where?” Jamie demanded as they passed us on the patio. I pointed to the yacht. “Chris and Quentin are there, outside the dining room, third level.”
“Wait inside,” Jamie commanded.
The manager of Blount’s had come out, drawn by the cops running through his lobby for the second day in a row.
“Is there a conference room where we can wait?” I asked him.
He appeared at first not to understand the question, but then he looked at Wyatt and comprehension dawned. “Of course.” He barked for a bellhop to show us the way. Before we followed him down the hallway, two EMTs ran through the lobby with a stretcher. I could have told them it was pointless, but I kept silent.
The handsome protester ran into the lobby. He grabbed my arm as we passed. “What’s happening?” he demanded. The color drained from his face as he watched the EMTs board the Garbo.
I shook my head, not prepared to answer, and moved past
him. The bellhop led the way to a ground-floor conference room; I followed with my arm around Wyatt. The windows were high on the walls. I was grateful Wyatt couldn’t see what was going on outside. The bellhop bustled around, turning on the lights and fetching a pitcher of ice water from behind the bar. Then he left us alone. I steered Wyatt to one of the comfortable chairs surrounding the conference table. I poured her a glass of water, retrieved a box of tissues from the adjacent powder room, and sat down.
Chris and Quentin arrived within minutes. When he opened the door to let them in to the conference room, Officer Howland barked, “No comparing notes about what you saw or heard!” He needn’t have worried. None of us were inclined to discuss any of it in front of Wyatt in her current state.
And then we waited. Chris and Quentin took turns walking out to the lobby, returning with reports about the activity. “EMTs are gone.” “State police car is here.” The next people to arrive were Sergeant Flynn and Genevieve. He was dressed in a crisply ironed, short-sleeved shirt and dress pants, obviously off duty. Genevieve was in a cute summer dress and a little cardigan. They must have been at dinner. Flynn made sure Genevieve was settled and then walked out, no doubt eager to find out what was happening.
He returned and sat next to Genevieve. “They’re here,” he said.
Wyatt looked up at him. “Who?”
“State police detectives, including my partner, Lieutenant Binder, and”—he hesitated, but went on—“technicians from the state medical examiner’s office.”
That was too much information for Wyatt, who broke down again. I handed her tissues and she fought for control.
Finally, the door opened, and Lieutenant Jerry Binder walked in. He greeted those whom he knew, which was everyone except Wyatt. To her he said, “Ms. Jayne, I presume?” He stood at the front of the room and spoke. He wasn’t a big man, or a particularly handsome one, with his ski-slope nose and the fringe of light brown hair around his bald head. But when he spoke, it was with an authority that demanded you listen. “Either I, or one of my colleagues from the state police Major Crimes Unit will interview each of you shortly. With Ms. Pelletier’s help, we’ve made contact with all but one of the Garbo’s crew members. They should be arriving as they can. We’ve made arrangements for the crew to stay here at Blount’s, except for Genevieve, who has accommodations elsewhere.” I noticed he used her given name that time. She was his partner’s girlfriend, after all. Binder turned toward Wyatt. “Ms. Jayne, I understand you found Mr. Bower. We’ll see you first.” His tone was gentle, even kind.
Wyatt nodded miserably and made her way slowly toward Binder, who showed her out. Sergeant Flynn didn’t move from his seat. “You’re not on the case?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Genevieve’s a crew member. I picked her up from the Garbo this morning.”
“Do they have a particular interest in the crew?”
“Julia—” His voice held a warning, but then he relaxed. “I doubt it. At this point, it’s standard procedure.”
While Binder interviewed Wyatt, members of the crew filtered into Blount’s conference room. First came Ian, the Australian deckhand; Doug, the pale engineer; and Rick, the French head steward. They told us they’d been at Crowley’s, and from the smell of them, they certainly had been drinking. Emil, the bodyguard, and Marius, the captain, arrived about an hour later. They said they’d been in Portland, enjoying a nice meal in a restaurant when they got the call. They had hotel rooms in the city’s Old Port district and had planned to stay overnight. Only Maria Consuelo, the young stewardess, wasn’t there. Genevieve had explained to the police that Maria Consuelo didn’t have a cell phone, and since she apparently wasn’t with any other member of the crew, she was unreachable. The police would have to wait for her to turn up.
* * *
Chris and I were interviewed after Wyatt, which made sense since we’d been the second ones to arrive at the crime scene. Jamie came to get us, taking us behind the front desk to a suite of hotel offices. He deposited Chris in the first room and walked me to the next one. Lieutenant Binder and the second detective, whoever he was, must have interviewed Wyatt together. Now they were splitting up to talk to Chris and me. Binder answered Jamie’s soft rap on the door. “Come in.”
The office was larger than I’d expected. It must have been the manager’s. Binder rose from behind the desk and motioned me to a seat opposite. “Julia. We meet in unpleasant circumstances, once again.”
“We do.” There was no point in denying it.
“Why don’t you walk me through the events of the evening.”
I told him about Wyatt’s call.
“And your relationship to Ms. Jayne is . . . ?”
“We went to prep school together. Many years ago. I hadn’t seen her again until yesterday. Quentin recommended her to my mother as an architect for a project we’re considering on Morrow Island.”
“Why did she call you when she discovered Mr. Bower?”
“She called Quentin Tupper first. They are friends, apparently. But then she realized how long it would take him to drive over from Westclaw Point, and she panicked. I guess I’m the only other person she knows in town.”
I told him about how Chris and I had rushed over to the Garbo. In a series of questions, he took me through what I’d seen, what I’d touched. What Wyatt had said. What Chris had said. He put on a pair of reading glasses I’d never seen him wear before and typed into his laptop as I spoke.
“There was a meal laid out on the table. Bower was behind it with that hideous smile.” I closed my eyes, trying to blot it out, but that just made the image stronger. I shook my head and opened them again.
“How did you know it was Bower?”
“We had dinner with him on the yacht last night.”
He made a note on the laptop. I assumed Wyatt would have already told him about the dinner. He led me through the night before, probing for details, occasionally nodding, still taking notes. Then he sat back in his chair and took off the glasses. “Why didn’t Ms. Jayne call nine-one-one right away? Why call Tupper and you?”
“I’d be speculating if I answered.”
“I’m asking you to speculate.”
“Geoffrey Bower was a recluse. He never left the ship. I think, in her panic, Wyatt wanted to shield him. Of course, she couldn’t. As soon as we saw . . . what we saw, Chris made the call.”
“Did you meet the crew last night when you were aboard?”
“Yes. I hadn’t realized Genevieve Pelletier worked for Bower, but once we found out, she invited us down to the crew quarters. Chris and Quentin had a tour of the mechanicals with Doug, the engineer, and Genevieve showed me the galley.”
“Tell me about Wyatt Jayne’s relationship with the victim,” Binder said.
“I’m not sure what I can tell you. Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen Wyatt since high school.”
“How did they act toward one another?”
My sense had been that Wyatt cared more about winning, or keeping, Geoffrey’s affection than he cared about winning hers, yet Geoffrey was the one who’d asked the crew to shove off for the night. “All I know is, Wyatt referred to Geoffrey as her boyfriend,” I answered. “And there was the diamond ring.”
“The what?” Binder said it casually, not looking up from the laptop where he was typing.
“The ring with the big diamond that was clutched in the lobster’s claw, on the dining table in front of Geoffrey Bower’s corpse.”
I had his attention. “There was no diamond ring on the table, in a lobster’s claw or any other place.”
Now he had mine. “I’m positive there was.”
Binder didn’t speak for several seconds. “After you left the dining salon with Ms. Jayne”—he scrolled back through his notes—“Mr. Durand stayed to guard the crime scene while you took her down to the main deck and ultimately off the ship.”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“How long was Mr. Durand alone above decks?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five minutes. Quentin Tupper showed up as Wyatt and I were leaving the Garbo and I sent him up to wait with Chris.” I held up my hand, palm out. “Don’t even consider Chris might have taken it,” I told him. Binder and Chris had had problems in the past.
“That isn’t my assumption. Excuse me.” Binder left the room, no doubt to pass the information about the diamond to the detective who was interviewing Chris.
When he returned, I described the ring and its setting, in detail and without hesitation.
“You remember it clearly for something you saw for a few moments, tops.”
I hesitated. “Yes.” I didn’t tell Lieutenant Binder I thought I’d seen the diamond before. It sounded too nuts. I remembered it because I’d recognized it. Or at least, I thought I did.
* * *
Chris and I drove back to our apartment over the quiet streets of Busman’s Harbor. The bars were closed. Everyone seemed to have returned to their hotel rooms and to bed.
“How’d it go?”
“Fine,” I said.
“They asked a lot of questions about Wyatt,” he noted.
“Isn’t that always the way? They look at the significant other.”
“I couldn’t tell them much. I met her yesterday.”
“Me either. I hadn’t seen her since high school graduation. Until yesterday.”
We rode in silence for a minute. The streetlights of Main Street slid by.
“You don’t like her,” Chris said.
“I like her fine.”
“Julia . . .” He wasn’t buying it.
“All right. I didn’t like her in high school and I haven’t made up my mind whether I like her now. Can we drop it?”
“Consider it dropped.”
