From their expressions, I could tell they were reacting as expected—most of them. Sasha was anxious, worrying a twist of hair. Gretchen was excited. Her eyes sparkled as she anticipated being in the thick of a media crush. Fred was detached and analytical, processing the information. He leaned back in his chair, his lips pursed, his eyes missing nothing. Cara looked on, her eyes big, her mouth slightly open, her uneasiness apparent. Eric didn’t look shy, though, as I would have anticipated. He looked afraid. The blood had drained from his face, and he was biting his lip. That reporters were digging around was irritating, for sure—but there was only one reason I could think of why their presence might be scary: Eric had something to hide.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chief Hunter took the scenic route, turning onto Ocean Avenue at the first opportunity. I lowered the visor against the sun’s midday glare, the brightness welcome after yesterday’s bone-chilling rain.
“I spoke to Mrs. Whitestone,” he said. “She flew in this morning and will meet us at the light house.”
“It’s got to be a nightmare,” I said, “having someone killed in your house.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. After a short pause, he added, “So … I mentioned that I had a couple of questions.”
I turned toward him and studied his face, hoping to get an indication of where this was heading. My eyes were drawn to his scar. It ran on the outside of his eyebrow in a loose zigzag pattern. The shape was what I would expect if he’d been attacked by someone wielding a broken beer bottle. If that’s what happened, I wondered how the perpetrator had been stopped from doing even more damage, and whether the incident had occurred in a barroom brawl or in a domestic dispute while he was on duty.
“Right,” I said, turning back to watch the glimmering ocean. Golden stars glinted on the midnight blue water. “I have something to tell you, too.”
“You first.”
“I asked Eric about whether Frankie had any other friends except Curt, and we got talking about girls.” I repeated what Eric told me about meeting nice girls at church.
“Thanks,” he said. “Why did you ask him about friends?”
“Because I thought he might know something. I was right.”
“You shouldn’t be questioning people.”
“Eric’s not ‘people,’ not the way you mean.”
Chief Hunter didn’t speak for several seconds, long enough so I began to wonder if he was waiting for me to say something.
“You told me how it came about that Mr. Winterelli got the job as caretaker,” he said finally. “Do you know how Ms. Morse became the Whitestones’ house keeper?”
Relieved that he’d let the issue of my talking to Eric slide, I said, “Yes, actually, I do. It was last July, the day I went with the White-stones to the Sea View Gallery exhibition opening. The show was called Made in America: An Artisan’s View of the Coast. Greg had a nice selection of American-crafted objects, all sorts of things—paintings, jewelry, pottery, and some scrimshaw. Ashley’s work was represented. The Whitestones had just decided to take my advice and buy a spectacular Lenny Wilton scrimmed tooth when Ashley struck up a conversation with us. She was enthralling—when she gets going about the history and lore of scrimshaw, she’s riveting. Anyway, one thing led to another, and they ended up offering her the job, and she took it.”
“That sounds like you’re doing a fair amount of editing. Fill in the blanks. Did they buy one of her scrimshaws?”
I smiled, remembering how Maddie had confessed to me that she’d gone back to the gallery the next day to get one of Ashley’s scrimmed teeth. “Yes.”
“Against your wishes.”
“That’s too strong. Against my advice would be a better way to put it—but that’s still misleading. Guy told me he was interested in building a world-class collection of maritime art and artifacts. I mean no disrespect to Ashley, but as I explained to you yesterday, the quality of her work just isn’t on par with that standard.”
“Why did they buy it, then?”
“Maddie told me that when she went to the gallery to pick up the Wilton tooth, she and Greg got talking about local artists. Greg contrasted Lenny Wilton’s situation with Ashley’s. They’re both serious scrimshanders, but there the resemblance ends. Lenny’s an artistic and business force to be reckoned with. Ashley is a hold-your-pinky-in-the-air artiste with no business sense at all. He’s twelve or fifteen years younger than she is, but his scrimmed teeth sell for more than six times what hers do. He’s won a dozen awards, holds patents for a scrimming machine, is represented in major museums, has had one-man exhibitions in Tokyo and New York, and has a growing business selling low-end, high-quality trinkets under the brand name Leon. Until the Whitestones hired her, Ashley had trouble making ends meet.”
As we approached Light house Lane, I kept my eyes on the undulating ocean. The rhythmic ebb and flow was hypnotic. If I squinted, specks of shimmering sunlight glinted like flickering candles.
“Maddie has a soft heart,” I continued. “After she heard about Ashley’s situation, she bought one of her objects—and she offered her the job as Rocky Point Light’s house keeper. It was a perfect opportunity for Ashley. The cottage that comes with the position is big enough so that she can use it as her studio as well as her living space, and since the Whitestones aren’t often at the light house, she has plenty of time for her art. No surprise—Ashley accepted the offer, and she’s been there ever since.”
“How long has she been exhibiting at Sea View Gallery?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s Greg Donovan’s reputation in the field?”
I turned to look at him. “In what way?”
“Is he an honest businessman?”
“I have no reason to think he’s not.”
“You sound like you’re hedging. What’s your hesitation?”
I chose my words carefully. “Greg’s been in business for a long time. I’ve never heard anything to suggest that he’s not completely on the up-and-up. If he wasn’t paying his artists, for example, I’d know it.”
Chief Hunter didn’t respond for several seconds. “You don’t like him.”
“Not much, no. But that has nothing to do with your investigation.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. What’s your issue with him?”
“You’re trying to get me to gossip some more,” I said.
“I’m trying to conduct a proper investigation. Why don’t you like him?”
“I don’t know exactly. He’s fake, for one thing. It sounds awful to say, but the plain truth is that being around him makes my skin crawl.”
He nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”
He turned onto Light house Lane. About a quarter mile up the road, we came to the massive gates. A patrol car blocked the entry. A young officer I knew by sight got out of the car and approached us. She was tall and thin and so fair her skin appeared translucent. Her hair was platinum blond, and she wore it in a high bun. Tendrils trailed from under her cap. She wore no makeup. Her badge read: OFFICER F. MEADE.
Chief Hunter lowered his window. “Anything?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir. Several reporters have been by. Most left without incident, but two had … well … a pretty combative attitude. One, a producer from a Portland TV station, wanted to shoot some background color—that’s what he called it, background color. The other, a reporter from a magazine, tried to sneak in while she thought I wasn’t looking.” She consulted her notebook. “She’s from New York Monthly.”
Bertie, I thought.
I followed Chief Hunter’s eyes as he surveyed the tall stone wall that stretched along the road, then curved into the forest. It would be impossible for one police officer—or even a dozen—to guard the entire perimeter. After a moment, he said, “You need help, you holler, okay?”
“Yes, sir. One other thing. Mrs. Whitestone is here.”
He nodded, acknowledging that he heard her, raised the window, and waited while she backed her car up so
we could turn in.
His phone rang, and he put in his earpiece and answered with a crisp “Chief Hunter.” He listened for a minute, thanked the caller, then said to me, “Citizen calls are trickling in about Mr. Winterelli.”
“From Wes’s article?” I asked.
“Looks that way. We just got an anonymous call from someone who said that Mr. Winterelli got into a fracas over the summer. About a girl. Do you know anything about it?”
“No, I haven’t heard of anything like that. If there’d been a scuffle and Eric knew about it, I think he would have told me.”
“We’ll check it out.”
As we passed the turnoff to Frankie’s and Ashley’s cottages, a fresh wave of sadness washed over me. Today was a perfect September day, warm and sunny and filled with promise, one of God’s days, my mother would have said. A day of easy living, a day to cherish before the long, hard winter provided an unremitting test of endurance. Is it better to die in darkness and cold than in bright light and warmth? I wondered, then realized that it didn’t matter—dead is dead. Poor Frankie.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We came to a stop in back of a black stretch limo parked in front of the light house. As I stepped out of the SUV, video-recorder bag in hand, the shiny red front door opened. Maddie stood on the threshold, smiling, waiting for us to join her. I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and grabbed my tote bag.
“Josie,” she said, her Slovenian accent strong and appealing. Her chestnut brown hair was long and straight. Her red silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and black suede high-heeled boots had been fitted by experts. She looked magnificent.
“Hi, Maddie,” I said. She stepped back into the enclosed vestibule, a bulwark the Whitestones had added during the renovation to protect visitors from the sometimes brutal New En gland weather.
“Have you met Chief Hunter?” I asked.
“We spoke on the phone. How do you do?” She offered her hand, and they shook. “Come in, please.”
The atrium floor was laid with reclaimed oak. A four-foot-wide compass made of rosewood and mahogany had been inlaid at an angle. Lights glittered in the ceiling twenty-five feet overhead. Guy had told me the pattern replicated the night sky as it would have appeared to a sailor passing Rocky Point Light on a midsummer’s night.
To the left and right were arched entrances into the circular open-plan living areas. On the left was the living room, then a small area Guy used as his downstairs office, then a game room, then the kitchen. On the right was a parlor, then a book-lined reading room, then the dining room, then the kitchen. A short hallway in front of me led directly to the kitchen.
A central core housed a curved staircase three times as large as the one at Prescott’s. It spiraled up three levels, passing the master bedroom suite, which comprised the entire second floor, then two guest rooms, each with its own bathroom, on the third floor, ending at a sitting room located directly under the rotating beacon. The beacon sat atop the widow’s walk and was accessed through a pull-down ladder. A waist-high railing at each landing provided dramatic 360-degree views down into the living space below and out over the ocean and forests through the walls of windows.
“I know you want to start right away,” Maddie said. She handed me a key and a slip of paper. “The key, it is for the front door,” she explained. “Here is the alarm code and the directions.”
“You’re not staying here?” Chief Hunter asked.
She shook her head. “No.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward the kitchen. “I’m not comfortable … I’m at the Forsythia Inn in Portsmouth.”
“I understand,” he said. “How long will you be in town?”
“A few days at least. Certainly until Guy joins me. We want to help in any way we can.” To me, she added, “You don’t need me now, do you, Josie? I have some work to do—it sounds … so … I don’t know … with Frankie just dead—” She broke off her sentence, paused, then continued. “I’m chairing the Golden Lights ball, a charity fundraiser, this coming December, and our invitations needed to go to the printer yesterday. I’d like to check into my room and finalize them.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I won’t have the inventory to show you for several hours at the earliest.”
“I’ll come back after I finish. I’m going to pack some things. Guy and I were planning on spending one more weekend here before closing the place up for the winter—but now, I don’t know … so I thought I should go ahead and take what I want while I’m here.” She sighed. “Also for later, Josie—I want to consult you about a Winslow Homer etching I’m thinking of buying Guy for his birthday. May I show you the photographs of it?”
My heart gave an extra thump. Winslow Homer was a dominant figure in nineteenth-century American art. One of his era’s most important proponents of realism, he had achieved popularity during his lifetime and near-icon status after his death. “Are you kidding me? I’d love to see them! Who’s the seller?”
“Some man who bought it from a woman. The first seller, I don’t know her name, she found it when she was cleaning out the attic of her family’s home. She wanted to sell it quickly and without a middleman—so she did, to this fellow, who I think is a kind of antiques peddler of some sort, I don’t know. He told me he read about Guy’s collection in the Antiques Insights article, so he called him.” She smiled, looking devilish and proud. “I picked up the phone, so Guy doesn’t know anything about it! I am very clever, yes?” She laughed. “It would be a perfect gift. He wants two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. What do you think, Josie? Is that a fair price?”
“I’d need to see it, of course, but on the face of it … maybe. If it’s an original, it’s a spectacular find, and that’s a better than spectacular price—but that’s a big if. What’s the subject matter?”
“A man and a boy in a small boat. They have a net filled with fish. The ocean is … I don’t know the word … angry.”
“The subject matter is right, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll let you know what I think as soon as I look at the photos. You’ll e-mail them to me?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Josie.” As Maddie turned to leave, her expression grew solemn. “I still can’t believe it … Frankie … Do you know his family?”
“Yes. His aunt, Zoë Winterelli.”
“Would you give me her address, please? I’d like to write a note, telling her how much we valued Frankie’s work, and how much we enjoyed getting to know him.”
I assured her that I would. As soon as she stepped outside, a short man with gray hair hurried around her limo to open the rear door, and I watched until they were out of sight. “How long do you need here?” Chief Hunter asked, recalling my attention. “An hour, maybe two. I don’t think it will take longer than that. I’m not actually appraising anything. I’m just recording what’s here to create an initial inventory.”
“How about if I call you in an hour and see how you’re doing?”
“That’s fine,” I said, and as soon as he left, I slid my tote bag and camera carrying case out of the way under a table in the front hall and stepped into the living room.
I started with a long, low display case positioned as a room divider. Inside, there were two handcrafted boat replicas, one in teak and one in mahogany; the boat-in-a-bottle they’d bought at auction from Prescott’s; five ship’s bells; the Frederick Myrick tooth that Maddie and Guy had bought from me, and the two teeth by Lenny Wilton and Ashley Morse they’d purchased at Sea View Gallery; two nautical clocks; and a logbook from a Nantucket whaler, the Planter.
Three paintings hung on the inside wall, all nineteenth-century oils of coastal or ocean scenes: a J. M. W. Turner, a Thomas Chambers, and a Charles Henry Gifford. I recorded each object from all sides, describing what I saw in minute detail, then scanned the room to see if I’d missed anything. I hadn’t.
I recorded a ship’s bell that Guy used as a paperweight, a captain’s desk, and, in the game room, a handcrafted chess table. I paused at the
entrance to the kitchen, dreading entering the room where Frankie had been killed but knowing that I couldn’t skip it—the Whitestones had hung a beautiful Robert Salmon rendering of Boston Harbor there, and I needed to record it. I took a deep breath before stepping into the room.
The floor was streaked with dirty footprints. Dried blood provided mute testimony to the violence that had occurred the day before. I closed my eyes to escape my memories of the macabre scene, then opened them—closing them only made the images more garish.
The kitchen was decorated in silver and black. The cabinets were crafted from cocobolo wood, the appliances were stainless steel, and the counters were black granite, flecked with silver. A porcelain cookie jar in the shape of a jaunty-looking sea captain smoking a pipe sat on the counter. The MADE IN CHINA mark told me it was a modern repro. Four small watercolors showing Rocky Point Light in different seasons hung in the in-room dining area along with the magnificent Robert Salmon oil. They, and several locally produced baskets suspended from an over-island wrought-iron pot rack, were worth recording.
Stepping into the dining room, I exhaled, feeling as if I’d held my breath the whole time I’d been in the kitchen. I was glad to be out of there.
I recorded a Fitz Hugh Lane oil of ships sailing into port that hung over the sideboard and a scrimmed ditty box that sat on top, and then I was done with the ground floor.
I climbed the spiral staircase to the next level, pausing briefly on the landing to admire the riot of color visible through the windows. Most of the furnishings and decor in the Whitestones’ bedroom suite were contemporary. I recorded only two paintings and three inlaid tea boxes nicely displayed on a small table.
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