Harbour Falls

by S. R. Grey

  As I drove along the lonely, dark road back to my cottage, I thought about how I was driving Adam’s old Lexus. I wonder if he has an extra set of keys for it, I thought to myself. “Probably,” I muttered aloud, sure that Adam had access to everything on this island.

  After I reached the cottage, I put on my pajamas, settled on the sofa, and turned on the television. Thankfully, there was digital satellite service out here on the island, so I had something like four hundred channels from which to choose. I flipped through several and finally left on some kind of crime drama. It seemed apropos, all things considered.

  There was an interrogation scene playing out, and it made me think about my upcoming visit to Billy’s. If the same bartender, Old Carl, was still working there, would he remember if the man witnesses had seen with Chelsea was J.T.? I had lots of pictures of J.T. from when I’d lived in Harbour Falls. Most were on my laptop. I scribbled down a note to print one out before Monday, so I’d have a photo to take with me for my own little interrogation of sorts.

  At last I turned the television off and went up to bed. While I tossed and turned, waiting for sleep to come, I replayed my time with Adam at the lighthouse. Keeping my plans from him—to write a nonfiction account of the Harbour Falls Mystery—was going to be tricky. What had he meant when he’d asked if I’d ever considered writing about the mystery right in front of me? If he’d been referring to the Harbour Falls Mystery—and, really, what else could it have been?—then he was evidently taking it in stride. He’d not sounded too upset and had, to my relief, dropped the subject rather quickly.

  Much like the Harbour Falls Mystery itself, the man at the center was a puzzle. And I longed to solve him, piece by piece.

  Chapter 6

  The next afternoon yet another visitor darkened my doorstep. But this one was not completely unexpected. “Nate,” I said in acknowledgment as I opened the door.

  “Hey, Maddy,” he replied as he lifted up four bags of groceries from the doorstep. “Your order was ready, so I figured I’d get it out to you.”

  “Wow, that was some quick service,” I remarked, moving aside so Nate could come in.

  “We aim to please, Maddy. We aim to please.” He nodded to the back of the house. “Kitchen?”

  “That’d be perfect. It’s right in here.”

  Nate followed me into the kitchen and then placed the bags on the counter. “Oh wait,” he said, grabbing some kind of letter wedged between the bananas and a box of cereal. “Here.” He handed me an envelope. “You’ve got some mail already.”

  I’d been told the mail coming out to the island was first delivered in bulk to Cove Beach, sorted by the Westons, brought over on the ferry, and lastly dropped off at the café. Residents were to pick up the mail at their leisure, but if one forgot or just didn’t want to bother, Nate would bring it en masse with the grocery orders.

  This particular piece looked like junk mail that had been forwarded from my dad’s. I thumbed open the flap on the back and pulled out a letter. “Oooh, look, I won,” I joked, holding up a notice that stated someone with my initials would most assuredly find themselves a big winner in the coming days.

  “Nice,” Nate said, dragging out the i. “Balloons and camera crews. I always wanted to meet the prize patrol.”

  We both burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but remark, “And just think what a warm welcome they’ll receive ferrying over with Jennifer.”

  “Sweet as sugar, that girl,” Nate said, rolling his eyes. Apparently Jennifer’s bitchiness was known by all.

  Before leaving Nate urged me to stop back into the café soon. “It starts to get rather lonely around here this time of year, and I know Helena would love the company.”

  So I promised to visit during the week but, again, wondered why Nate and Helena—both so outgoing and friendly—chose to live on this island. I deduced that Adam must have been paying them a bundle. But did the island really need a “manager” and someone to run such a low-volume café? Perhaps Adam wanted them here to ease his own loneliness? Or were Nate and Helena out here because they were hiding something? Maybe something related to the mystery? This last thought reminded me that I had yet to call my dad to ask him about the call records from the pay phone that had once stood at the Harbour Falls bank.

  I grabbed my phone and, catching my dad at his office at City Hall, summarized for him what I’d found in the case files. “Do you think they’re still floating around somewhere?” I asked when I’d finished.

  “I can look into it, but it’s been a long time. Those records—if they ever existed—were probably lost or destroyed.”

  Thinking out loud, I blurted, “Funny the police never followed up.”

  My dad was silent, and I suspected he was bristling. “Our police department never had the kind of manpower needed to head up that kind of an investigation, Maddy. You know that.”

  “I know,” I conceded. It was true; the Hannigan disappearance had strained all of the resources in our small community.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “we know what time she made the call. If we could just get a list of numbers that were dialed out that night, we could find out who Chelsea was talking to.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, honey,” my dad promised, and then we quickly wrapped things up, since he was running late to a community meeting of some sort.

  Fueled by the progress I was already making on this cold case, I fired up my laptop and began to scour my files for a good, clear photo of J.T. O’Brien, one I could take to Billy’s.

  Browsing through the old photos brought back waves of memories. I randomly clicked a thumbnail to expand a picture from back when I was fifteen. It was a close-up of Ami and me, smiling and sunburned at the local pool. The caption read: Red as Lobsters—But Happy as Clams. I recalled that day perfectly; we’d forgotten to bring sunscreen, and consequently had been burned to a crisp. But damn, we’d had fun.

  Still smiling, I clicked another image—this one was of J.T. and Ami standing in a line at a local amusement park. I’d caught them off-guard as the three of us, so close back then, had waited to ride what had been deemed, at the time, to be the latest and greatest roller coaster in the area. I stared at the photo and shook my head. Where had the time gone? How had my friends changed so much?

  With a sigh, I closed the image and opened a folder labeled “Summer after Graduation.” And it was there I stumbled upon the mother lode of J.T. photos. Most had been taken down on Cove Beach, a few days following commencement. I remembered that day like it was yesterday. One of my graduation gifts from my father had been a digital camera, and J.T. and I had gone down to the beach to try it out.

  There were several photos of J.T. goofing around near the water, but I ultimately chose a clear headshot, a sliver of blue sky the only background. I sent the photo to the printer and wondered what had happened to the friendly, shy boy I’d once called a friend. Was he the mystery man who’d been with Chelsea at Billy’s? Doing drugs together? If so, what kind of relationship had they had? Had their commonality of substance abuse brought them together? Had it torn them apart? After my strange interaction with J.T. on the ferry, it wasn’t hard to imagine something minor setting him off. There was something different about him now, something broken. Like a part of who he’d once been was lost. So maybe it wasn’t so farfetched to imagine he had played a role in Chelsea’s disappearance?

  In any case, the suspect list was growing. Because if it turned out J.T. was once involved with Chelsea, then Jennifer was a suspect too. She loved J.T. and would have been insanely jealous had she known. Had she retaliated? Revenge was the oldest motive known to mankind.

  I couldn’t rule out Adam’s sister, Trina, either. According to the case files, she hated Chelsea and hadn’t wanted her brother to marry her. Why? Was it reason enough to have given her a motive? I’d have to find out.

  And then there was Adam. If Chelsea had been blackmailing him, as rumored, then he may have had the strongest motive of th
em all. And that’s what scared me.

  The ride to Cove Beach on Monday morning was piloted not by Jennifer or J.T. but by Brody Weston, Jennifer’s cousin. As he helped me on board, I tried to remember Brody’s story. He’d been orphaned as a toddler and had come to live with Jennifer’s family. In a way he was more like a brother to Jennifer. But, to my delight, Brody was nothing like his cousin. Nor was he like J.T.

  Courteous from the moment I stepped on the ferry, he asked a few perfunctory questions and then left me alone. This was just as well since I was stressing out.

  After all, I was heading to Billy’s—not the nicest place around—to more or less conduct an interrogation. And I had no experience in questioning people. Sure, I’d written enough about it, but I had no idea how to effectively do it in real life, especially without arousing suspicions. I had no great plan. I was just going to wing it and hope I could pull it off.

  Once we reached the mainland, Brody was sweet enough to help me back my car out of the garage by the dock. After thanking him, I headed over to Harbourtown.

  Billy’s was located in a warehouse district down by the river docks. Not the greatest part of town. The place itself was little more than a rundown, wooden shack that someone, probably drunk, had thought to paint a garish shade of purple. I shook my head as I drove by the entrance. The name “Billy’s” was spelled out in big, red script letters that scrolled across the front edge of the roof. It looked like each letter was wired to light up at night, though, based on their condition, they were probably a fire hazard. The dot on the “i” was missing, and the “s” was listing forward, ready to topple over if a good, strong wind kicked up.

  I parked around the side of the building behind the only other vehicle in sight, a motorcycle. When I reached the propped-open front door, the “s” creaked ominously above my head, making me hesitate. Maybe it was a sign to scrap this crazy plan? As I stood in the entrance, the smell of stale beer and sweat wafted out. But there was something more, something base and vile—Billy’s reeked of desperation.

  A part of me wanted to get back in my car and drive away, but I was here for a reason. So I went in. There was a guy—way too young to be Old Carl—wiping the top of the dark oak bar with a dingy-looking cloth that had seen better days. He was humming along to an old seventies song—something about lying eyes—as he lazily worked the rag down the length of the bar.

  He looked up as I approached and, upon noticing he had a potential customer, reached below the bar and turned down the music. “Oh, hey. What can I getcha, Miss?” he asked, a stringy swath of dark hair falling across his gaunt face.

  “Just water would be fine,” I replied, as I pulled out one of several wooden bar stools and sat down.

  The too-skinny bartender flipped the hair from his face and eyed me dubiously, so I hastily changed my order to a beer. He nodded approvingly and then made his way down to a silver cooler at the other end of the bar. “Glass?” he called back as he reached into the cooler.

  “Just the bottle is fine,” I replied, glancing around to get a lay of the land, so to speak.

  There was a back room off to the left, housing several pool tables and a few of those dart machine games. A sign with an arrow was taped to the wall, and someone had written in black marker “Restrooms.” I couldn’t see much more back there, as the lights were off. So I focused back on the bar area. Besides the tall stools at the bar, there were a few tables and chairs scattered about. The wall behind the bar was one large mirror, making the place appear larger than it was. Several neon beer signs, some illuminated, some not, adorned the dark wooden valance above where I sat. As my eyes scanned the shelves before me, jam-packed with liquor bottles, I noticed the kid was on his way back to my end of the bar.

  He stopped in front of me, twisted the cap off the bottle, and slammed the beer down in front of me. His dark eyes raked over me, and though I’d dressed down, I cursed myself for wearing designer boots.

  “You sure you’re in the right place, Miss?” he asked, snickering. “’Cause you’re not really lookin’ like you belong in here.”

  I took a deep breath, figuring I wasn’t fooling the kid, so I might as well get down to business.

  “Um…Yeah, right. I’m not really here to drink.” He shot me a look that screamed, No shit. “I, uh, have a friend who I think used to come here. A guy. I’m kind of looking to find out if he really did hang out here. And if so, who he used to hang with. I think I may have known her, too, if it’s the girl I’m thinking of.” The kid eyed me cautiously, his dark eyes wary, but I stammered on. “I mean, she used to be kind of a friend too.” OK, so that part’s a huge lie; Chelsea had never been my friend.

  The time stretched on, and the kid said nothing, so in an effort to put him at ease, I added, “I’m Maddy, by the way.” I smiled my friendliest smile and held out my hand.

  At first he continued the silent treatment, but then he quietly said, “I’m Jimmy.” He reached hesitantly for my outstretched hand.

  “There used to be another bartender here back then. He may know better who I’m talking about?” I offered, the pungent smell of disinfectant from his hands growing stronger as we shook.

  I jerked my hand back, but he seemed not to notice. “Oh, you mean Old Carl,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, he doesn’t work here no more. Quit a couple years ago.”

  “Oh,” I said, “do you know where I could find him?”

  “Nah, he doesn’t live ’round here no more. Said he was goin’ to California or some shit. No one’s seen him since.” Jimmy picked up the dirty dishrag and resumed his earlier task of wiping down the bar. “Maybe I could help? I’ve only been bartendin’ here for a year, but I’ve been comin’ here for a lot longer ’an that. Pretty much know every face that’s been in and outta here the last few years.”

  “This would’ve been five, maybe six, years ago though,” I said, doubtful that this kid was going to be much help. He looked too young to have been coming here back when Chelsea, and maybe J.T., had been frequenting this place.

  But Jimmy insisted, “I’m tellin’ ya, I’ve been comin’ here since I was sixteen.” He looked proud to share this admission. He leaned forward like we were in on it together and whispered, “Just don’t be tellin’ the boss.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” I mumbled into my tilted bottle, hoping he’d not catch my sarcasm, and then I downed a big gulp of cheap beer.

  “This dude you askin’ about, you gotta description?” Jimmy persisted.

  Oh hell, it was worth a shot; maybe the kid did know something. So I said, “Better, I have a picture.” I pulled the photo of J.T. out of my bag, and Jimmy tossed the dishrag aside before grabbing the picture and giving it what appeared to be a good, long look.

  At last he lowered the photo, and his narrowed eyes met mine. “You’re not some kind of a cop or somethin’?”

  “I’m not a cop, I swear.”

  “Reporter then?”

  “No,” I said emphatically.

  Jimmy glared at me, glanced back down at the picture of J.T., and then flicked the photo back at me. It landed faceup on the bar, and he turned away with a mumbled curse.

  “So?” I asked Jimmy’s back.

  “Uh, never seen him before,” he replied flatly, while showing a sudden interest in straightening the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The one with the turkey on it apparently didn’t belong next to the one with someone’s—I squinted—old granddad on it. Yeah, right.

  I met Jimmy’s eyes in the reflection from the mirror; the lie was written all over the kid’s face. “Come on, Jimmy,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you know.”

  He turned back around but kept his eyes down while muttering, “You know, I could tell ’ya, but business has been kinda slow here lately.” He nodded to a tip jar nestled between two bottles. “Hard to remember things from the past when you’re worried about makin’ this month’s rent.”

  OK, so the kid was shaking me down to pay for what
ever information he had. I wasn’t entirely surprised, and luckily I’d brought extra cash in anticipation of this exact sort of thing. I pulled out a wad of bills and peeled a fifty off the top. Jimmy’s tongue darted over his chapped, peeling lips as I pushed the crisp bill across the bar. I thought I saw him salivate a little.

  With his hand hovering above the money, he hesitated. “Ya know, you wouldn’t believe how much it costs for a dump around here.”

  The kid was like a pro. I huffed and peeled off another fifty. I resignedly threw the bill atop the other one. Jimmy quickly grabbed the money and stuffed it into the tip jar which—a few seconds ago—had held only coins. He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the threadbare jeans that hung too loosely on his slender frame.

  I tapped the heel of my boot impatiently against the leg of the bar stool, waiting while, with his lips, Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He lit it, and drew in deeply. “OK, OK. Yeah, that guy used to come in here,” Jimmy said, exhaling.

  “And…” I prompted.

  He shot a glance around the bar, which was still quite empty, but he lowered his voice anyway and said, “The guy in your picture used to come in here with that girl who disappeared. Chelsea, uh, something.”

  “Hannigan,” I whispered.

  “She was a friend of yours?” he asked, eyes widening.

  “Kind of,” I lied. “It’s a shame what happened to her. Gone missing, and all.”

  “Hell, I’m surprised something didn’t happen sooner, to tell you the truth,” Jimmy chortled, cold and uncaring.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, a little sickened by his callousness.