by Barbara Ross
Captain George began the tour narration with the mandatory safety announcement. Life vests for passengers on the top deck were in the gray bin behind the pilothouse. I went to it and opened the lid. Rows of neat, dry, orange vests sat inside, not tangled or otherwise compromised. Score another one for the crew.
Over the loudspeakers, Captain George continued speaking to our invisible guests, pointing out the hotels that lined both sides of the inner harbor, as well as the Lobster Deck, a restaurant that passed out our fliers in return for a plug. Soon we were away from the boats at their moorings and George began to speak about the history of Dinkum’s Light, which lay straight ahead.
I climbed down to the main deck and ordered a draft beer from the snack bar. The young man in charge pulled the tap handle expertly and tilted the plastic cup to manage the foam. He was a cute kid, over twenty-one, since he was allowed to work the snack bar, but I didn’t think by much. His khakis and navy blue polo shirt with the words “Snowden Family Clambake” stitched on the pocket made him look snappy. I asked the way to the ladies’ room. He blushed slightly, but directed me to the passageway that led behind the snack bar.
The head was immaculate. Captain George had done a good job with the kids. The narration was piped into the bathrooms and I listened to his resonant voice as he pointed out seals sunning themselves, and osprey’s and eagle’s nests on little uninhabited islands of the outer harbor.
As I washed my hands his tone changed. “Fire. Fire in the snack bar.” Captain George barked the words with authority, but without drama. A siren sounded. “Crew to your fire stations.” Footsteps pounded across the deck above me. I ran to the main deck. A kid went charging by me toward the snack bar, a fire extinguisher over his head. He opened it expertly, and was about to douse the area, when I yelled, “Stop!”
I caught my breath. “Great job,” I said to the crew members gathered around me “While he . . . what’s your name?”
“Devon.”
“While Devon put out the fire, what should the rest of you be doing?”
“Keeping the guests calm.”
“Passing out life preservers.”
“Readying the lifeboat for water evacuation.”
“Readying the gangway in case of land evacuation.”
A land evacuation is what Captain George would attempt in all but the direst situations. If the boat were navigable, he’d maneuver us to or near land. The water of the harbor was always deadly cold and especially so in June.
“Don’t tell me, show me,” I urged.
“Yes, ma’am!” They hurried to their respective stations.
“How’d that go?” Captain George asked when I returned to the pilothouse.
“You’ve trained them well. Glad we did it, though.”
“You can only get so far on land. You have to drill. As long as they remember there’s only one captain, and the captain’s in charge, they’ll be fine.”
On Morrow Island, I directed the crew to unload the bags of onions and potatoes and stack them on the pantry shelves I had scrubbed the day before. Satisfied everything was shipshape, I headed down to the little house by the dock. Captain George had given his crew a break to blow off some steam. They’d retrieved a volleyball and net from our shed and were enjoying an energetic game.
Upstairs in the little house, I threw the small number of personal things I’d left there into a gym bag. Between one thing and another, I wasn’t going to be sleeping on the island again. School ended the next day and Livvie and her family would move in soon after. I’d miss the quiet and the dark, dark nights with millions of stars.
Back downstairs, I sat at the dining table facing the picture window with a view of the Atlantic out to the horizon and opened the pamphlet Cliff Munroe had given me. It was a typical black-and-white, trifold design, the kind that could have been made at any copy shop.
The story it told was the same one the protester had outlined for me, but with a lot more exclamation marks.
THIS MAN PROFITS FROM YOUR PAIN!
While he sails in his gigantic motor yacht, you may have lost your home, your job, maybe even your health.
Geoffrey Bower made his $$$$$ betting against the US housing market. He bet against the big banks and the insurance companies. He bet you wouldn’t be able to pay your mortgage, and in all too many cases, he was right.
He knew something was rotten, yet he said nothing. He didn’t warn the regulators or the journalists or the pundits. He didn’t try to warn you. He kept mum and made billions.
You live with the consequences of his actions. Maybe your house is still underwater. Maybe your retirement fund is depleted. Maybe you are still out of work or working part-time for low wages. Geoffrey Bower lives on in luxury!! But we must see to it he does not live in peace.
The pamphlet was signed “The Alliance for a Fairer Universe,” which seemed like a grandiose and unachievable objective. Whoever they were, they had protested Geoffrey in Europe and in peaceful Busman’s Harbor, hidden away at the eastern edge of the United States. It seemed odd. It seemed off. But I couldn’t say how.
The Jacquie II’s whistle sounded, calling the crew back to their posts. I put the pamphlet in my tote bag and headed to the dock.
Chapter 17
As soon as we docked, I thanked Captain George and his crew and walked directly to the police station. I was surprised to find Lieutenant Binder behind his desk; he was a man who liked to take active part in his investigations, not a paperwork jockey. But perhaps without his faithful sergeant at his side, things were different.
“Ms. Snowden, I don’t remember an appointment.”
“We didn’t have one.”
“But nonetheless, you’re hoping I’ll update you on the investigation.” He sat back in his desk chair.
“Can it really hurt?” He didn’t answer, perhaps hoping his silence spoke for itself. “Tell you what,” I continued. “What if I ask questions and you answer only the ones you’re comfortable with?”
He laughed. “And what do I get in return?”
“I’ll answer any question of yours. Not selectively. Anything.”
“Go for it. How can I lose?” He folded his arms across his chest, a gesture demonstrating the opposite of openness, despite his words.
I wiggled in the hard folding chair, hoping to get comfortable, but failing miserably. “Do you know more precisely what caused Geoffrey Bower’s death?”
“We do.” He put his glasses on, clicked on his screen, and then read, “Hemlock water dropwort. Botanical name: Oenanthe crocata, family: Umbelliferae.” He stumbled over the Latin, as I certainly would have done.
“And what is that when it’s at home?”
“It’s a highly poisonous plant. Unusually, every part of it is poisonous—stem, flower, leaf, root.”
“And how do you think it ended up in Geoffrey?”
“That is the question, now isn’t it? For certain, he ate it.”
“Was he force fed or did he eat it willingly?”
“From his stomach contents, it appears the plant was delivered in the curried chicken salad Genevieve says she made for his lunch. Unlike most poisonous plants, the hemlock water dropwort is quite tasty. The stems look like wild celery and the roots like parsnips. Poisoning of humans is rare, and almost always accidental—usually foragers and such.” Binder shifted in his chair.
“Where does this dropwort stuff grow?”
“Everywhere. All over Europe and North America, including here in Maine. You’ve no doubt seen it. It grows in swampy areas, looks like a giant Queen Anne’s lace.”
“Could the poisoning have been an accident? Something mislabeled that Genevieve bought at the farmer’s market?”
“Highly doubtful. No one else in town is sick.”
“Have you interviewed Genevieve since you received this information?”
“She’s due here at any moment. When you came in, I thought you were her. Obviously, as the person who prepared Bower’s foo
d, she needs to be questioned.”
How had the hemlock water dropwort gotten into the salad, assuming that is what happened? Had someone given it to Genevieve, who’d unknowingly prepared it? Or was it substituted later? I thought about Geoffrey’s life, a man in exile. “Could he have poisoned himself?”
Binder looked up from his computer, squinting at me over the glasses. “You’re suggesting that Bower purposefully ingested a poisonous plant, had several grand mal seizures and certainly vomited, cleaned himself up, dressed in that ridiculous yachting outfit, put all the dinner food out, and then sat behind his dining room table, before the last seizure carried him off, leaving a horrific tableau?”
I snorted a laugh. He was right. The scenario was ridiculous. “A horrific tableau for his girlfriend to discover,” I added.
“Allegedly discover,” he corrected.
“Is Wyatt Jayne still a person of interest?”
“We’re expecting Mr. Bower’s attorney tomorrow. He’s been detained in New York by pressing interests related to Mr. Bower’s business and his death, but he’s provided us with Bower’s most recent will and testament. You may be interested to learn that several years ago, after he made his fortune, Mr. Bower set up a foundation to build affordable housing to aid families who are homeless or in danger of becoming homeless.”
“Ironic.”
“Seems more like guilt to me,” Binder said. “A week ago, Mr. Bower changed the trustee whom he designated to run the foundation in the event of his death.”
“He named Wyatt,” I guessed. This isn’t good.
“He did. His attorney, Mr. Frederickson, was surprised and tried to talk his client out of making the change. Previously, Mr. Frederickson had been the trustee. He told me in conversation that he and Mr. Bower had been friends since childhood. Mr. Frederickson was under the impression he was Mr. Bower’s only friend.”
“Wyatt wouldn’t have access to the money.” I spoke my thought aloud. “Presumably, with that kind of funding, it would be a real charitable foundation with a board and oversight.”
“No, she wouldn’t have access to the funds for personal use,” Binder agreed. “But according to Frederickson, it would catapult her to the top of a rarefied world where she’d have architectural and construction commissions to pass out like candy.”
In other words, to the top of the world she already lived in. The Wyatt I knew was ambitious. “Does Wyatt know about this?”
“Mr. Frederickson informed her this morning. There’s one strange, additional caveat to all of this. Mr. Bower asked for Ms. Jayne to arrange his funeral. His parents are long gone and he has no children or siblings. The medical examiner is done with the remains. Ms. Jayne has arranged for his body to be shipped back here to Foreman’s Funeral Home today.”
“To Foreman’s?” Given Geoffrey’s wealth, I’d imagined a grand funeral in a New York cathedral. But then, who would have come?
“The funeral is to be here. And soon.”
“He didn’t know a soul here.”
“I’m not sure he knew a soul anywhere. It appears, aside from Mr. Frederickson and Ms. Jayne, the crew members of the Garbo were the people closest to him. Ms. Jayne wants to hold the funeral before they scatter to the four corners of the earth.”
Lieutenant Binder’s information led inexorably in a circle. Binder had told me the police psychologist believed Geoffrey’s body was staged by someone who felt remorse, someone who cared about him. With the exception of his lawyer, the people who cared about Geoffrey were all working or staying on the Garbo. Wyatt had motive, the others didn’t. They had anti-motive, if that was a thing. They would lose their jobs. There had to be another motive Binder didn’t know about.
What a sad life, to be mourned only by the people you employed. And how at odds it was with the smiling, charming man in the funny wig I’d met on Thursday night. “Have you found Maria Consuelo?” I finally asked.
“Ms. Lopez is still missing.”
“Do you think she killed Geoffrey?”
Binder took off his reading glasses. “No. At least, not alone. Everyone has described her as a little slip of a thing. It would take enormous strength to dress Mr. Bower, lift him off the floor, and seat him at the table. My instinct is we’re looking for two people, working together. We’re searching everywhere for Ms. Lopez, but because we think she may have witnessed the crime or may even be another victim.”
“You think two people killed Geoffrey?”
“I do. And a little too conveniently, the people of interest in this case break down into groups of two who alibi each other. Emil Nicolescu, the bodyguard, and Marius Alexandrescu, the captain, say they were together in Portland. And they were, at least in the evening. We’ve verified that with two bartenders in the Old Port. Ian Cowen, the deckhand, and Douglas Merriman, the engineer, were roaming bar to bar in Busman’s Harbor. Again, we can account for part, but not all, of their time. Rick, the head steward, is the only one who seems to have spent time alone. He says he went to the beach before he met up with Mr. Cowen and Mr. Merriman, though we haven’t found anyone to confirm it.” He paused. “Genevieve Pelletier’s alibi is, of course, provided by my own partner.”
“You don’t believe either of them had anything to do with this.”
He hesitated before answering, but finally said, “No. I don’t. Though Genevieve probably prepared the meal that killed him, so we have to look at her seriously.”
“And Wyatt Jayne? Who’s her alibi?”
Binder’s head drew back, as if startled. “Why, Quentin Tupper, of course. She’s said she was with him at his house on Westclaw Point all afternoon. I thought they would have told you that.”
They hadn’t told me. And given the lieutenant’s theory the crime was committed by two people, that made Quentin a suspect too.
Chapter 18
The interview was interrupted by a knock at the door. The civilian receptionist informed Lieutenant Binder that Genevieve had arrived for their meeting. I rose, feeling like I’d gotten away with something. Binder had never gotten to question me, which was just as well, since I had some checking I wanted to do before I shared with him the information I thought I had. I passed Genevieve in the hall on my way out, gave her a quick hug, and wished her luck.
I called Quentin on the walk home, got no answer, and left a message on his voice mail that we needed to talk.
As I came up the harbor hill, I spotted Page and Vanessa sitting in the late afternoon sunshine on the floor of Mom’s front porch, playing a messy card game of war. I was almost to the front steps when Page shouted, “I quit and you’re a stupid-head.”
“We don’t say ‘stupid,’” I said reflexively as Page flounced past me toward the backyard. “What was that about?” I asked Vanessa. She stared back at me with those big, green pools of eyes and said nothing.
“What’s going on with those two?” I asked. Mom was in the kitchen, feeding baby Jack.
“Either too much time together or anxiety about being apart when Page moves out to Morrow Island for the summer,” Mom answered. “I can’t figure out which. Vanessa’s mom is working the day shift, off tonight. Can you drive Vanessa home around seven? Sonny can’t pick up Jack and Page until eight. I’d like to see those two separated and home in their own beds on the night before the last day of school.”
“Sure. I have some things to do first, but I’ll be back by seven.” I started up the back steps, then stopped. “Why can’t Emmy pick her up?”
“She doesn’t have a car. A coworker who lives out on Thistle Island has been giving her rides to work, but she doesn’t like to ask him to stop in town to pick up Vanessa.”
I imagined life out on Thistle Island without a car. It couldn’t be easy, especially in the winter.
In the clambake office, I started up the old desktop to check out the thing that had bugged me for two days. I had noticed the diamond ring, though neither Wyatt nor Chris had. It had arrested my attention because I was sure I had se
en it before.
The reason we had the funds to even consider rebuilding Windsholme was because my mother had inherited a necklace. Called the Black Widow, it had an enormous black diamond as its center stone. Originally valued at two million dollars, the necklace had sold at auction to an anonymous bidder for five million. My mother had split the proceeds with two other heirs.
It wasn’t the big black diamond I was interested in. It was the two dozen white diamonds rising up on either side of the necklace strand. I had photos of the Black Widow on my computer. They’d had to be sent off to the insurance company, the auction house, the attorneys, and a ton of other places. I found a photo and zoomed in on one of the white diamonds. The hair on my arms stood up. That was it! I was certain the diamond was the same.
I didn’t recognize the stone, of course. I didn’t have a jeweler’s eye or experience. It was the distinctive, old-fashioned setting, an intricate filigree web. Someone had carefully transferred it to the ring, intact. I stared at the image for several minutes, even as I felt the tick of the clock. I needed to speak to Tom Flynn before Genevieve returned from the police station.
Le Roi jumped into my lap. He was too big for laps, but that was a premise he didn’t accept. He settled, hind legs draped over one side, head and neck draped over the other, and began to purr. I petted him, sweeping the length of his chunky body. He was named Le Roi, for Elvis Presley, “the King,” and in recent years, and especially this year after being an indoor cat for the whole of the winter, he’d come to resemble Vegas Elvis much more than Sun Records Elvis. But I could still feel the long muscles of his torso under the extra fat. “Sorry you’ve been neglected, old boy,” I said, though he’d showed no resentment.
I searched the Web quickly to see if there was any news of the Black Widow. There wasn’t. I knew the auction house wouldn’t divulge who’d bought it. I’d tried that route before.
