Fogged Inn

by Barbara Ross

  The words were no sooner out of my mouth than Deborah grasped her chest, took a deep breath but didn’t exhale, and crumpled onto the hard kitchen floor.

  Phil beat me around to the other side of the island. “Dammit, Julia! I begged you not to upset her!” He cradled Deborah’s head in his arms as she gasped for breath. “Get her medication from the shelf in the pantry!” He turned his attention back to his wife. “Slow, deep breaths, Deborah. Help is on the way.” I returned to Phil with her medication, a Valium prescription, and a glass of water. Since I’d had panic attacks myself, I felt awful for Deborah, and guilty about what I’d done to her. Unless she was an Oscar-worthy actress, she’d had no idea of either Enid or Austin’s identity. And, clearly, she hadn’t put the past as much in the past as she thought she had.

  Phil helped Deborah to her feet, then looked at me. “Go,” he ordered.

  But I had to fulfill my mission. “Okay,” I said, loud enough for both of them to hear, though I doubted I had either’s attention. “I have to go anyway. While I was in Connecticut, I visited the Lowes’ old insurance agent. He gave me the report from the fire. It’s in a manila envelope on the coffee table in a tote bag in my apartment. When Lieutenant Binder gets back into town tomorrow, I’ll give it to him.”

  Phil muttered, “Go away, Julia,” but his attention was clearly on his distressed wife. I let myself out the front door.

  Chapter 28

  I put the Caprice in my mother’s garage and fast-walked back to the restaurant. Gus would be winding down for the day. I had just enough time to grab a late lunch and help Chris get set for the evening.

  I sat at the end of the counter, the only customer in the place. Gus served me one of his famous grilled cheese sandwiches and I chowed down. I savored the sharp tang of the cheese, the perfect crunch of the bread. It was the taste of my childhood and my current existence. My life had come full circle, the past united with the present.

  That couldn’t happen for the surviving members of the Rabble Point set. Caroline had been the one to use the words “cast out of Eden,” but they all had lived for years in a state of exile. Their lives had been varied and rich. Some had successful professional lives, some loving families, some both. All had been in long-standing marriages that were, to all appearances, loving and supportive. But when they’d had the opportunity, they’d returned to the place where they’d felt they belonged. As Caroline had articulated it, where they’d felt known.

  One of those people, I was convinced, was willing to kill to keep the past in the past and prevent it from destroying the now. And maybe, I was beginning to believe, not to cover up their own culpability but that of a beloved spouse.

  But which one? I’d spread a lot of misery today. I’d forced people to tell me things they didn’t want to talk about, remember times they’d tried to forget. I’d made grown-up humans cry. It didn’t feel good. I hoped the guilty party would take the bait I had so carefully laid out at a high cost to everyone else.

  Chris arrived as I took my last bite of sandwich. Gus finished cleaning and turned the place over. Because the restaurant had been so busy the night before, I set every table in the dining room, cut up extra fruit for behind the bar, washed more lettuce for the salad station. Livvie came by at four and dropped off the evening’s desserts—blueberry cheesecake and chocolate mousse. “We’re coming for dinner tonight,” she said. “And bringing Mom.”

  I ran up to my apartment and changed. While I was there, I fed Le Roi, who tried to feign indifference but at the last minute couldn’t hold out and ran for his bowl. Then I headed back downstairs.

  The restaurant was busy again that night. In addition to the couples and foursomes, there were families. For the first time, I seriously considered a children’s menu.

  Mom, Sonny, Livvie, and Page arrived around seven. Forewarned, I’d kept a big booth in the dining room open for them. Page greeted Chris with her usual enthusiasm, calling from across the counter.

  “Hey, squirt,” he responded, but didn’t have time for much more because we were slammed.

  Kendra Carter was there with her husband and their two kids. “I hope we’ll see you Tuesday night at the Sit’n’Knit,” she said.

  “I don’t know. I’m such a terrible knitter.”

  Kendra leaned in close. “It’s not about the knitting,” she whispered.

  Exactly what Livvie had said. Maybe they had a point.

  By seven thirty the place was full, and a couple of tables had even turned over. I finally found my way back to the bar, where I attempted to tidy up before I had to rush off again. The restaurant was noisy from the people and their chatter. In the center of it all were the members of my own family. Mom’s face was animated, the tiredness of the long shifts at Linens and Pantries washed away. She, Livvie, and Page laughed at some story Sonny told.

  I walked across the room to where Chris stood, momentarily caught up with the cooking. I put my arm through his and turned him toward the room full of people enjoying the food and celebrating the weekend. “We did this,” I whispered to him. “We did all of this.”

  “Thanks to Gus,” he said.

  “Yes, thanks to Gus. And to us. We’ve worked hard. We need to enjoy it.”

  “Yes, we do.” His lips grazed my cheek.

  I spotted a table that needed to be cleared, a dessert order to be taken. Another group signaled for their check. I was off and running again.

  The crowd around the bar lingered, and it was after midnight when the last couple left. I cleaned up and checked on the state of the restrooms. Chris finished battening down the kitchen. I heard the walk-in door open and rumble shut, though the food had been put away hours before. I knew Chris was making a final check of the premises, just as I was.

  “Going upstairs!” he called to me. “You coming?”

  “One minute.” I made one last circuit of the restaurant to make sure it was shipshape for Gus in the morning, dousing the lights as I moved around. I shot the shiny, new deadbolt across apartment door at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Everything okay?” Chris glanced at me as I came up the stairs. He was on his way into the shower after a sweaty night of cooking.

  “Fine.”

  “Because you seem a little distracted.”

  “Do I? Sorry. Long day.”

  While Chris was in the shower, I tried a variety of activities—book, TV, computer, but none held my interest. I changed into the old Snowden Family Clambake T-shirt I slept in, pulled the covers up, and put my head down on the pillow. Not long after, Chris climbed into bed and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed.

  * * *

  I pulled on my jeans and sweater, stuffed my feet into my sneakers, grabbed my phone, and crept quietly down the stairs, undoing the deadbolt at the bottom. In the restaurant, I took Gus’s hammer and the big flashlight out of his toolkit under the lunch counter and then pried off both two-by-fours that Chris had nailed over the trapdoor behind the bar. The boards screeched as I pulled them up. Between that and the grunting and the swearing, I worried Chris would appear. I waited a few moments, heart pounding, but he didn’t. I positioned a chair opposite the bar, by the wall under the light switch. And waited.

  And waited. Waiting in the dark for something that might not happen turned out to be stupendously boring. I shifted on the wooden restaurant chair, stiff and cold.

  And waited.

  The harbor was quiet in the dead of the night. Quiet in a way my apartment in New York never was or could have been. The streetlight on the other side of the parking lot threw a tiny sliver of light into the room, but not enough to see much of anything.

  In spite of my best intentions, I dozed.

  “Julia?”

  “Aieee!” My eyes sprang open, but I couldn’t see a thing. I flailed at the intruder, who grabbed both my wrists and held on.

  “It’s me, Chris! I woke up and you weren’t in bed, so I came to find
you. Good grief, Julia. What is going on?”

  I sagged against him. “Shhh. Quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.”

  Chris found a chair and pulled it next to mine. “Seriously, what in the world are you doing?”

  “I told everyone who was in the restaurant the night Austin Lowe was murdered that I had the only copy of an insurance report that named the person who left the cigarette that started the fire at the Lowes’ house. I figure that’ll cause whoever’s been breaking into the apartment to show up one last time.”

  Beside me in the dark, I heard Chris open his mouth several times, but he produced only sputtery noises. Finally, he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I worried you’d think I was insane.”

  “Well then, mission accomplished.”

  We sat for a moment, then he said, “Julia, we have to talk about this. I’m serious. This is the second time you’ve tried to brain me. And the second time you’ve put yourself in danger without telling me. I think, after all this time, after all we’ve been through, I’m owed a heads-up on your intentions.” His voice had an edge to it I’d rarely heard. He was angry.

  I felt my face flush. “You’re right. You are. You are owed that, and so much more.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” he said. “When we’ve had some sleep.”

  “Maybe we should go to bed. It looks like my plan hasn’t worked. I’ve been sitting here for hours.”

  “It’s still dark.”

  “Then we should quiet down. Just in case.”

  Chris took my hand and we sat in silence. In a few minutes, his chin dropped slowly to his chest.

  I was about to drop off again myself when I heard a creaking noise from behind the bar. I shook Chris and then elbowed him. He jerked awake with a “Wha?”

  “Shhh!”

  The trapdoor banged as it fell open. I put my hand on the light switch. Soft footsteps made their way around the bar. Whoever it was wore a headlamp like bicyclists wear but didn’t shine it in our direction. Instead, the person made straight for the apartment stairs.

  When I judged the intruder was in the middle of the room, I flipped on the lights.

  “You!” I shouted, pointing at Phil Bennett, who stood in the center of the room.

  “You!” he yelled simultaneously, pointing at Chris and me. Then he turned and, with surprising agility, fled back the way he’d come.

  I thrust my phone into Chris’s hands. “Call nine-one-one,” I shouted, and ran after Phil. He jumped down through the trapdoor, grunting as he hit the rock not far below. I jumped after him, hit the rock, and aimed the flashlight just in time to see him slip through the opening to the cave.

  I followed, pointing the flashlight ahead of me. Bennett ran on, apparently sure of the way. I’d been in the tunnel only once before and moved more cautiously than he did, worried about running headlong into a wall of packed dirt despite my flashlight. I pushed myself to go faster. If he made it to the ladder and pulled it up behind him, I’d have to turn around and go back, and he could easily get away.

  Behind me, I heard the slap of bare feet on the tunnel floor. I assumed it was Chris. I had to believe it was Chris. If someone else was pursuing me, it was too scary to think about.

  Ahead of me, I saw the ladder in the light of Phil’s headlamp and heard the creak as he stepped on the bottom rung. I aimed my flashlight and caught Phil’s back as he vanished upward. I leapt toward the ladder, grabbing the sides as he thundered to the top and began to pull it up. “Oh, no, you don’t!” I stepped down forcibly on the bottom rung.

  I thought for a moment I might bring him tumbling down on top of me. But he released the ladder. As I clambered up, I heard him slam the door of locker 10B. I was afraid he might have locked it, and I threw myself against it as hard as I could when I reached the top. It sprang open, my own momentum propelling me to the floor. I scrambled to my feet. I could hear Bennett running toward the front door. I jumped for him, bringing him down. I landed on his back, my knees on either side of his ribs. I heard a distinct crack that might have been bone breaking.

  “Oof.”

  There was a thump and a bump and the sound of someone patting a wall. The overhead lights blazed on. Chris stood by the switch, barefoot and blinking. Jamie and Officer Howland broke down the front door seconds later.

  “What’s going on here?” Howland demanded.

  “Phil Bennett broke into my apartment to steal evidence three times, trying to cover up that he murdered Austin Lowe and Enid Sparks!”

  “Mrgh, mrgh, mrgh, mrgh!” Bennett protested from beneath me.

  Jamie shook his head. “No, Julia. He didn’t kill anyone.” Then he added, “Get off him. You’re hurting him.”

  So I did.

  Chapter 29

  “Every once in a while, you should trust us to do our job.” Lieutenant Binder’s mouth was a thin, straight line as he sat across the folding table from me in the multipurpose room. Flynn was so angry, he couldn’t keep still. He paced the room, not looking at me, as we spoke.

  I’d spent a couple of long hours sitting in the Busman’s Harbor police station, waiting while Binder and Flynn made their separate journeys to town. I suspected Binder had been called at his home in Augusta, while Flynn was roused in Portland from Genevieve Pelletier’s warm bed. Both had been summoned in the early hours of Sunday morning to deal with a case they were sure they had closed. No wonder they weren’t happy with me.

  “Enid Sparks killed Austin Lowe and then jumped or fell into the harbor and drowned,” Binder said. “It’s true her note didn’t explicitly say she planned to kill him, but she procured the insulin and syringe before she left Guilford. She was prepared for what she thought she had to do.”

  “Lowe’s backpack was filled with cans of Coleman fuel,” Flynn spat. “The kind used in camp stoves. He spent the time between when he left the Snuggles and entered the restaurant gathering kindling along the road and pushing it through the opening under your building. He never did figure out who left the burning cigarette that killed his parents and maimed him. His plan was to burn all of them—and you and Chris—alive.” Flynn’s eyes blazed with fury at my foolishness.

  I shuddered to think of it. If Austin Lowe hadn’t turned up in the walk-in, I would have described that evening as a normal, after-holiday weekday evening at the restaurant. I had no idea what was going on beneath my feet.

  Binder took up the story. “Enid Sparks must have lurked by the kitchen door, waiting for Lowe to leave. When he came through the parking lot to get the gas cans, she led him into the restaurant and into the walk-in, so no one would hear them arguing. She wore winter gloves, which is why she left no fingerprints.

  “Despite his plan, Lowe was feeling mellow from the effects of the diazepam and the Wild Turkey. He went along willingly. When she saw there was no other way to stop him, Enid did what she thought she had to do.”

  “That poor woman.” It broke my heart to think of her, killing the person she had raised.

  “That kind of desperation, seeing no other way out, is what drives normal people to murder.” Binder paused, then continued. “When she saw that wall her in nephew’s study and understood what he planned to do, she was so shocked, she lost all capacity for rational thought. Then add in the trauma of her car accident . . .” He shrugged. “There’s no doubt about it, Julia. That’s what happened.”

  My face flushed with embarrassment. I had been so sure Enid couldn’t have been the killer. “But how did she give him the Valium?”

  Binder looked at Flynn who glowered back, but nodded.

  “You weren’t completely wrong,” Binder said. “Of all the diners, only Phil Bennett recognized Austin Lowe.” The portraitist. Just as he’d recognized Michael Smith’s features in Quinn’s face. “When Bennett realized that all but one of the living guests from the fatal New Year’s Eve party were there in your restaurant, he figured there was something wrong. He put the Valium in Lowe’s drink. He’s confessed to t
his. He’s also confessed to breaking into your building three times and to stealing the gift certificates, as well as your copy of the yacht club photo, along with the one from the yacht club. Apparently tonight he was after the copy of the insurance report you picked up in Guilford, though why he thought getting rid of a copy would make a difference, I don’t know.” Binder squinted. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  I sat, still and silent. I was already in enough trouble.

  When Binder understood I wasn’t going to speak, he said, “There’s no one left to prosecute for Austin Lowe’s murder. I’ll talk to the DA’s office about bringing charges against Bennett on the Valium, but I doubt they’ll want to pursue it.” He moved some papers around on his desk, obviously buying time for whatever was coming next. “In the meantime, it’s a local matter, but I’d recommend you drop the trespassing and burglary charges against Bennett in exchange for his dropping the assault charges against you.”

  “Assault charges!”

  “You broke at least two of his ribs, Julia.”

  “I was defending my home.”

  “Were you in your home when you assaulted him? You chased the guy for a hundred feet underground and up a ladder. And what was the monetary value of the items he took?”

  Flynn looked at me for the first time in the interview. His face was triumphant.

  I was crushed, and mortified. On three previous cases, I had been a real help to these detectives. Now I’d shredded whatever standing I had with them in a single day.

  Binder took my silence as indecision. “Perhaps it would help if you and Mr. Bennett spoke,” he suggested.

  * * *

  We sat side by side in folding chairs. Binder and Flynn had left the room to give us privacy. Bennett was obviously in pain. His next stop was the hospital.

  “You broke into my place three times.” I wasn’t cutting him any slack. “You stole from me. You scared the crap out of me. And Chris.”