Harbour Falls

by S. R. Grey

  Things were really starting to happen, but I wouldn’t rest easy until the picture was in my hands. If there was any hope of pulling this off without Adam finding out what I was up to, I had to tread carefully and pay special attention to every detail. Otherwise he’d put a stop to it. Now I wished Adam wasn’t returning later in the day, as it was going to make things trickier to get off the island tomorrow. His first full day back, I was sure he planned on spending it with me. But I had to get to Harbourtown, even if it was just for a short period of time early in the day. Therefore, I needed a plan to prevent Adam from catching on to what I was up to. I ran my fingers over the keys on my cell. Nate said Helena was in Harbour Falls…

  Inspiration struck.

  I hastily typed a text to Helena, explaining that I was going to be in Harbourtown tomorrow. I asked if she wanted to drive over from Harbour Falls and meet me for lunch. Of course I planned on telling Adam we’d be having lunch closer to Helena’s mom’s house to hopefully allay any suspicion.

  After I hit send, I crossed to the living room window. As predicted the rain was starting to lighten up. But brisk winds were blowing the freshly fallen leaves, spinning them into tiny tornadoes that hinted at a bigger storm to come. A feeling came over me with a sudden ferocity, a feeling of dread. Closing my eyes I breathed in deeply, chalking up my skittishness to the Halloween heebie-jeebies. Strangely enough, though, it was at that exact point things started to get, well, strange.

  First Helena didn’t respond for a solid hour. Usually I never had to wait more than five minutes for her to text back. Odd. And then the only thing she wrote in her return text was: Why are you going to be in Harbourtown?

  The tenor of the text was off. Helena never asked questions like that, nor did she write such short, clipped replies. Something was wrong. Did Helena suspect something? How could she? Knowing how easy it was to misread the intent of the written word, I brushed it off.

  With my fingers on the keys, I contemplated my reply. Helena wouldn’t be running into Adam over the next twenty-four hours. Hmm. My thumbs flew over the keys, I texted that I needed to go to Harbourtown to pick something up for Adam. Hoping she’d not ask what, I hit send.

  Another lengthy twenty minutes passed, and then Helena texted: Let’s meet at the little Italian bistro on the corner of Leaf and Ninth. I think the name is Peppio’s. Is 2 o’clock good?

  I knew the restaurant—it wasn’t far from Billy’s—so I confirmed with a return text, and then I placed the cell next to me on the sofa.

  Well, that was unusual. Maybe Helena had been distracted, seeing that she was at her mom’s house and all. Apparently something was going on there, especially with the usual calm and cool Nate acting so tense earlier.

  From the cushion next to me, my cell buzzed once again. This time it was Adam.

  “Hey,” I answered, smiling, even though he couldn’t see me.

  “Hey,” he replied curtly.

  I ignored his seemingly annoyed tone and asked, “How’re things going? What time do you think you’ll be back?”

  Adam cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that…” He hesitated. “Uh, I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  I glanced out the window, and though it was already almost dark, the rain had stopped completely. “Why aren’t you coming back tonight?” I pressed. “The storm passed.”

  “It’s not the weather, Madeleine,” he snapped. “Something has come up that I have to take care of.”

  “OK,” I said softly, cowed by his sharp tone.

  Adam sighed, and I could imagine him running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Maddy. I’m just stressed out with wrapping up this deal.”

  “It’s fine,” I replied, even though I did feel slighted. “I understand.”

  We talked awhile longer, but there was something off throughout the rest of the call. When I hung up, I felt even more alone. Everyone was acting strangely—Helena and now Adam.

  I tried to see the bright side of the situation. I mean, I hadn’t had to mention my lunch plans with Helena to Adam. He didn’t even need to know that I planned to go to Harbourtown. He’d obviously been in a bad mood, and there’d been no point in exacerbating the situation. Hopefully I could take care of my business tomorrow at Billy’s, meet Helena for lunch to preserve my cover story in case it ever came up, and be back on the island before Adam even returned.

  But I couldn’t help but wonder if Adam’s bad mood was truly a result of his stressing over the Boston deal. He was usually in high spirits when discussing anything related to the deal—assuring me it was as good as done. Until today.

  So what could have happened to have made him so agitated?

  I slept fitfully that Halloween night, my sleep plagued with nightmares…

  I’m down by the lighthouse, and bloody waves of water crash over the black rocks. Red over black, red over black. And then I’m back at the café, and J.T. is attacking me, only Jimmy’s voice is in the background, whispering the threatening words J.T. had said to him. And then suddenly J.T. is gone. But Jennifer is there, seated at a table and drinking cappuccino. When I turn away from her sneering face, I notice there are more women, all seated at the tables. Helena, Trina, even Lindsey. Only instead of cappuccino, they’re drinking champagne from fluted glasses. Strawberries are scattered all over the tables, the chairs, the floor, everywhere. And the women are laughing…at me.

  Adam steps into the café, and I run to him, pleading with him to get me out of there. He leans down to kiss me, telling me everything will be fine. But as our lips move together, I suddenly feel the air being sucked out of my lungs. Gasping, I open my eyes. And I’m not kissing Adam. I’m kissing Chelsea. And she’s pale, cold, and dead.

  Monday morning was cold and dreary, a light drizzle ushering in November. Jeans, layers of long-sleeved tees, a beige wool sweater, and my trusty hiking boots, and I was ready to face the day. Ready to go to Billy’s—hopefully for the last time—and get the picture from Jimmy. My heart raced with the anticipation of finally discovering who was in the Polaroid with Chelsea.

  Nervous, but resolute, I locked up the cottage and headed down to the dock, scanning the area to see who was around. The café nightmare had made me especially uneasy at the prospect of having to deal with Jennifer or, God forbid, J.T. this early in the morning. But to my relief, J.T. and Jennifer were not around.

  Instead it was Brody who waited for me to board the ferry. Always a gentleman, he smiled and helped my aboard, and then we were off. I was uncharacteristically chatty, surely due to nervousness, but Brody seemed preoccupied and tired, yawning almost incessantly. I got the hint, so I buried my head in a magazine I’d brought along to pass the time.

  Once we reached the mainland, I quickly surveyed things. No sign of J.T., no Jennifer. Excellent. I hurriedly got the BMW out of the garage and raced toward Harbourtown. This excursion needed to be quick and anonymous, and so far, so good.

  Paranoid that Adam had somehow discovered what I was up to, I kept a check on the traffic behind me, periodically glancing up to the rearview mirror. But there was no Max trailing me. In fact, I had the road mostly to myself, unlike the last time I’d traveled this route. Or the first time. With such light traffic, I reached Billy’s in no time at all. I parked along the side of the building, got out, and locked my car doors. It was always lonely down here, but today seemed exceptionally desolate, with no other cars or people in sight in the area around the bar. I guessed Halloween had been quite the party night down here by the docks, and now the revelers were all home recovering.

  I hustled to the entrance. As I shouldered the door open and stepped inside, an unexpected chill ran down my spine. Breathing in the smell of stale beer and sweat I’d come to associate with Billy’s, I detected an unusual, underlying scent. Something so pungent I skidded to a stop just as the door slammed shut behind me. What I smelled was the scent of fear and…something else, something metallic.

  I glanced around, my eyes adjusting to the d
im interior. The string of Halloween lights Jimmy had strung up behind the bar was on, giving everything an eerie orange and purple cast. But otherwise everything looked normal. Well, as normal as Billy’s could look. A half-empty mug of beer rested on the bar, but not a soul was in sight. It was quiet, too quiet. Jimmy always played music, but today the only sound was a steady drip of water coming from somewhere in the back room.

  “Jimmy,” I called out, taking a tentative step forward. “Is anybody here?”

  My hollow voice echoed, and I sensed there was something terribly wrong. My heart raced, but I continued to take small, shuffling steps, forcing myself to keep walking toward the bar. Closer, closer, but then I slipped, quickly grabbing hold of a bar stool to steady myself.

  I glanced down to the dusty, wooden floor. A piece of white paper or something was stuck to the heel of my hiking boot. Reaching down, I peeled it away. It wasn’t a piece of paper after all. It was an envelope. A shaky, childlike “M,” printed on the front in black marker, the only marking on it. A lump rose in my throat, because I knew in my heart that the “M” was for Maddy, and Jimmy had been the one who’d written it.

  This was it—the picture! I turned the envelope over and lifted the flap, all the while my hands trembling. But the envelope was empty. There was no photo, nothing.

  Had Jimmy dropped the envelope before having a chance to put the photo in it? No, that wasn’t right. Panic set in. Why was the envelope even on the floor? Had someone removed the photo and dropped the envelope? That was looking like the most likely scenario. But if so, who?

  “Jimmy?” I called out once more.

  Nothing.

  Dizziness overtook me, so I closed my eyes. Count to ten...breathe slowly. I slid my hands from one bar stool to the next, letting them be my guide to the end of the bar. When I reached the final stool, I opened my eyes. Coming here was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I felt it with every fiber of my being. And when I leaned around the edge to look behind the bar, my fears were confirmed.

  Lying on the floor, in a widening pool of blood, was Jimmy—a single bullet hole marring the pale skin of his forehead.

  Chapter 23

  The shock of it all knocked the wind out of me, I truly couldn’t breathe. I dropped to my knees, my heart hammering in my chest. My gaze swept over Jimmy’s still form. Nobody could lose this much blood and be alive. My mind refused to accept it though. I placed a shaky hand along the cool skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse. Please, even a weak one, I prayed.

  But nothing, nothing. Jimmy was dead.

  I yanked my hand back and watched helplessly as the pool of blood beneath his head slowly widened. Sickened, I scooted away and fumbled in my bag for my cell. Once in my shaky grasp—with Jimmy’s blood on my hands, literally and figuratively—I dialed 911. And then I dropped the phone back into my bag and waited.

  So much blood, there was so much blood. In my left hand, I was still clenching the envelope I’d stepped on. Loosening my grip, I glanced down. The “M” on the front, now smudged with Jimmy’s spilled blood, taunted me. Though the envelope was empty, I was sure it had once contained the photograph I’d come to pick up. But now that picture was gone. And Jimmy was dead.

  Was he dead because he’d been trying to help me with the case? God, I prayed not, but my instincts told me that was the case. I felt numb. Someone had taken a drastic step to ensure the picture remained hidden. Who would murder someone over a picture? The person responsible for Chelsea’s disappearance, my mind whispered.

  Yeah, that—or someone close to the individual responsible. The fact that a person would go to these lengths strengthened my conviction that the picture somehow held the key to Chelsea’s disappearance. That blonde mystery woman knew something.

  I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but hope Jimmy had remembered to make a copy of the photo and mailed it to me. Because now it was my only chance of ever finding out who was in that picture with Chelsea Hannigan.

  The wailing of the sirens grew closer and closer, until the cacophony was joined by the flashing of red and blue lights as they pulsed through the single glass block window cut into the front of Billy’s. Several officers of the Harbourtown police department burst through the front door, but I was unable to move. So I stayed where I was—kneeling on the dusty, wooden floor, next to a kid lying dead in his own blood. My left hand twitched, and I realized I was still holding onto the potentially incriminating envelope. Only it wasn’t just an envelope, it was Jimmy’s death warrant. And it had been signed, so to speak, with my initial. It had to go. I scanned the area for a place to dispose of it.

  The police were approaching, and I panicked. Fearing that I’d be implicated in Jimmy’s murder, I crumpled the envelope— inadvertently smearing more blood along the front and back—and quickly tossed it into a trash container tucked beneath the bar.

  When I glanced back up, a young officer was before me, offering his hand. I searched his face to see if he had seen what I’d done, but there was nothing to indicate he’d caught me throwing the envelope into the trash can. In fact, he graciously helped me to my feet and then told me his name, asked if I was OK.

  Did I look like I was OK? The name went in one ear and out the other, but I did have the wherewithal to nod that I was—at least physically—unharmed. He led me away from Jimmy’s lifeless body to a table in the back room. He wanted me out of the way, but in a place so small, I still had a pretty good view of the Harbourtown PD as they moved around the body like bees around a hive, processing the crime scene.

  I sank into a wood chair at the table, and the young officer told me to remain where I was. He said a detective would be over to speak with me shortly. I nodded absently, but I don’t think he even took notice. He was too busy staring at my bloody hands. He pulled several napkins from a metal dispenser atop the table, handed them to me with a shake of his head, and then left me alone.

  The blood on my hands—so sticky, still wet—made my stomach roil. Disgusted, I scrubbed at the gloppy, red mess as best as I could. I wanted it off, off, off. But even as my hands grew sore from the intense rubbing I employed, they still retained a faint pink tint. I choked down the lump rising in my throat and tossed the soiled napkins into a pile on the edge of the table. I surveyed the rest of my body. Besides a long, diagonal streak of blood smeared across the front of my beige sweater—I must have wiped my hand without realizing it—there was no more evidence of Jimmy’s demise marking me.

  Now that I was as cleaned up as I was going to be until I could take a shower, I resumed watching the flurry of activity surrounding Jimmy’s body. More importantly I listened carefully to what was being said…

  Jimmy Kingston—,whose last name I’d never taken the time to learn—was pronounced dead at 12:48 p.m., though the coroner who had arrived on the scene a few minutes before, and was now barking this information out, estimated the actual time of death to have occurred roughly an hour prior.

  That meant I had just missed the killer. A chill ran down my spine at the thought.

  Cause of death: a single bullet wound to the head. Ballistics: Jimmy was shot with a .38 caliber weapon, at close range.

  The gun I’d come across in Adam’s desk drawer flashed through my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. After all, lots of people owned that particular type of firearm.

  No sign of a struggle.

  Jimmy had either known the individual who’d shot him, or he hadn’t seen the individual as a threat. Someone pretending to be a customer, most likely. Or had it been someone he recognized?

  An officer with a portable fingerprinting kit was lifting prints from the half-full glass of beer still perched on the bar. He was telling another officer that the only prints found, so far, belonged to the victim—Jimmy.

  Maybe the killer had worn gloves? Or maybe Jimmy had poured the beer for himself?

  Another officer chimed in that the surveillance video that would have captured the perp’s entrance and exit from the bar was missing. It
was becoming apparent that the person responsible for Jimmy’s death had been smart and thorough.

  No money was missing. So a robbery-gone-wrong was ruled out. It was clear from the snippets of conversation I picked up that the police were coming to the conclusion that Jimmy had been the intended target. Something I already knew.

  And I was damned sure I knew the reason why, but I couldn’t exactly tell the police. Hell, I’d been snooping around in an unsolved mystery, illegally obtaining case files from my dad, and paying cash for potential evidence in the cold case. Yeah, probably best to keep quiet.

  I looked away, and when I turned back, a handsome, rugged-looking man with tousled brown hair was making his way toward me. A second later he was at the table. “I’m Detective Mitchell, homicide division,” he said, introducing himself with a somber nod. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”

  Saying I didn’t feel up to it wasn’t really an option, I knew this. Detective Mitchell was just being nice. He was going to make sure he got his answers, and he was going to do it before I had a chance to think too much about my responses. So I nodded and exhaled slowly. “Sure, that’ll be fine.”

  The detective sat down and took out a small, tattered, spiral-bound notepad and a pen. The questioning then began.

  “What’s your full name? Miss…?” he asked.

  “Fitch,” I replied. “Madeleine Fitch.”

  He paused, looking up from where he jotted down my name in the tattered notebook, and met my eyes. “You related to Mayor Fitch over in Harbour Falls?”