by Lea Wait
What was happening inside that house?
“Hello? Is everyone all right?” Sarah called out. The debris on the kitchen counters and table told us the Lawrence family, or at least some of it, had a late night. Bottles, glasses, and the empty cake plate were among the trash no one had cleaned up. Unless, of course, breakfast had involved scotch and Bradley’s Coffee Brandy.
“Hello?” Sarah called again.
No one answered. And no one was in the kitchen or living room.
“I’ll check the gallery,” said Jeremy. Not surprisingly, his first thought was for the paintings.
“No one would shoot in the gallery,” I hoped out loud. “What about upstairs? Sarah, come with me. You know the house better than I do.”
She nodded. Patrick hesitated and then added, “I’ll check the rooms between here and the barn.”
Should all of us stay together? I didn’t know what we would find. Or who. But spreading out seemed to make sense. “Yell if you need help,” I said as Jeremy and Patrick took off in opposite directions and Sarah and I started up the staircase to the second floor.
Abbie, wearing a faded flannel nightgown, her usually immaculate hair uncombed, came out of the rose bedroom as we reached the second-floor landing.
“What’s happening? What are you doing here?”
“It’s almost noon,” I pointed out. “We cleaned up the beach. We were going to leave when we heard a gunshot.”
“And glass breaking,” Sarah added. “We wanted to make sure everyone was all right.”
“I was sleeping,” Abbie said. “I didn’t hear anything.” She looked around the landing. “Everything looks all right.”
“Where are the others?”
“Maybe sleeping?” The only open bedroom door was Ted’s. I glanced in. Unlike the rest of the house, his room was a mess. Bedding was on the floor, clothes strewn in all directions, books that might have been stacked had fallen over, and the closet door was open. Either Ted was a lot messier in his private life than he was in public, or his room had been trashed. Or searched.
“Luke was awake earlier, when the Marine Resources men were here,” I prompted.
“Who was here?” Abbie looked confused. And hung over. Either she didn’t know anything, or she wasn’t going to tell us what she knew.
“Where’s Silas?” I asked. After all, yesterday he’d had a gun. And he was her husband.
“I don’t know. I told you. I don’t know where anyone is.”
“You weren’t in the same bedroom?” Sarah asked. “Not that it’s any of your business. But no. We weren’t. We had an argument last night. The last time I saw him he was asleep downstairs, in the living room.”
I assumed “sleeping” for Silas was the equivalent of “passed out.”
“He isn’t there now,” I said.
“I don’t see it’s any of your business where my husband or I sleep or don’t sleep. And this is a private residence.” She looked directly at Sarah. “You might have convinced Dad you were a relative, but you haven’t convinced anyone else. Get out. Both of you. Or I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing.”
Sarah blanched, and dug in her pocket. “Ted gave me a key to the house a month ago. He said to use it if I thought he needed help, or there ever was a problem here.” Abbie didn’t know Patrick and Jeremy were also somewhere in the house. “Jeremy has a key, too.”
“Dad may have given you that key. But he’s dead. Gone. His permission ended at that hospital last night. So just get out. Now.”
Sarah turned toward the stairs.
“And before you go, give me that key.”
Sarah turned slowly, and threw the key on the floor. “You weren’t here to take care of your father. You never even called to find out how he was. He needed someone to watch out for him. I did that. You have no right to treat me like this.”
“And you were going to be well rewarded for being nice to the old guy. But it didn’t work out for you, did it?” Abbie reached down and picked up the key. “He died, and everything he had belongs to his children, as it should be.”
Sarah stopped back toward her. “I didn’t cook and clean for him and keep him company for any reward. I was as surprised as you were when he announced he was changing his will. I didn’t expect anything. He was kind to me, and trusted me. He knew you and your brothers might not believe who I was, which is why we had those DNA tests. All I wanted was a family.”
Sarah’s eyes filled, but she was angry as well as hurt. As she turned and headed down the stairs I realized none of the other bedroom doors had opened. Could anyone have slept through Abbie and Sarah’s argument?
I glanced one more time at Abbie, who was fingering the key to the house as though it was a talisman. The way sometimes I rubbed the gold angel on the necklace Mama had given me when I was nine.
It was the only thing of any value Mama had ever given me. Abbie’s father had given her everything when she’d been growing up, except maybe as much love as she’d needed. Now she’d inherit millions.
I didn’t feel sorry for her.
But I wanted to know where her husband was.
“Angie!” Sarah’s voice from downstairs sounded urgent. “Come on!”
“Just get out of this house,” said Abbie. “Now.” She went back into her bedroom and slammed the door after her.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Thus when my draught some future time invades
The silk & figure from the canvas fades,
A rival hand recalls from every part
Some latent grace and equals art with art.
Transported we survey with dubious strife
Each form & figure start again to life.”
—Harriet Wells (1796-1814) of Woodbury, Connecticut, and New Hartford, New York, stitched these words on her delicate sampler in 1806, when she was eleven years old.
“Angie! Now!”
I took a last look at the closed doors on the second floor, and raced down the stairs. Sarah sounded anxious.
She was standing in the hallway between the living room and kitchen, looking down toward the gallery wing. “I heard something down there.”
A door closed in back of her, and Patrick joined us. “No one, and no broken glass, between here and the barn,” he confirmed. “How about upstairs?”
Sarah and I looked at each other. “Abbie’s up there,” I said. “She just woke up. I don’t think she knows anything.”
“But I heard voices, and something falling down toward the gallery,” Sarah said.
Jeremy had gone that way. Who else was there?
“No other shots?” I asked as we ran toward the rooms that held the studio and painting storage as well as the gallery.
“I didn’t hear any,” said Sarah.
The sound of our footsteps stopped whatever was happening. All was silent.
Where was Silas? His gun was in Ted’s safe. Abbie said he’d been sleeping in the living room last night, but no one was there now. Luke and Michael must be somewhere, too.
Every time we opened one of the wing’s connecting doors, I expected to see someone. Without thinking, I’d drawn my gun. Sarah didn’t seem to notice, but Patrick looked startled. He knew I’d been a private investigator. Guess I’d never gone into details about what that entailed.
This wasn’t the time for a heart-to-heart talk.
“The paintings,” Patrick said urgently. “They mustn’t be damaged. We can’t let anyone hurt the Robert Lawrences.”
I’d been thinking more about people, but Patrick was right. The paintings were treasures. I’d been more impressed by them and by Ted himself than by any of Ted’s children. Or by Silas, who was the one I expected to see behind each door we opened.
But it wasn’t Silas. Luke was the one with a gun, standing over Jeremy, who was huddled in the corner of Ted’s office, kneeling in shards of colored glass from a broken stained-glass window above him.
“He tried to shoot me,” said Jeremy.
“He did!”
That didn’t make sense. Jeremy had been outside when we’d heard the gunshot.
“I didn’t. But I just might,” said Luke. “I found him trying to open Dad’s safe.”
Sure enough, a safe was behind Jeremy.
“Luke, put the gun away,” I said, pointing mine at him.
Sarah and Patrick had retreated to the door, but hadn’t disappeared. I wasn’t sure which of them looked more surprised at what was happening.
“Gun down,” I repeated. “I want to hear from both of you what happened.”
“You’re not the police,” said Luke.
“Nope. But I’m a good shot.”
“If I put my gun down, will you put yours down?” he negotiated.
“After I hear your stories,” I promised. “And make sure no one else is hurt.”
“There’s no one else here,” said Luke. “Abbie’s still in bed, I guess. Haven’t seen her today. Michael went for a walk.”
“And Silas?”
“I took his gun last night. This gun. He was acting crazy. He was screaming at Abbie, saying he’d tell everyone what she’d done. He wasn’t making sense. He probably won’t even remember. I didn’t get him to bed until early this morning. He’s probably still there, in the guest bedroom.”
“I saw Ted put Silas’s gun in his safe yesterday afternoon.”
“That must have been another gun,” Luke said drily. “Did you or Dad ask him if he had more than one?”
I shook my head.
If Luke was telling the truth, then we needed to hear what was going on here.
“And the gunshot? The one before Jeremy got here.”
Luke gently put his gun on Ted’s desk. I reached over and took it, removed the bullets, and handed it to Sarah, who clearly didn’t want it. “Just hold it,” I said.
“Last night we all talked a lot. About Dad, and art, and what it was like growing up here. What was going to happen to this place, and to the paintings. We didn’t make any decisions. Dad hadn’t made out a new will—he’d said so Friday night. We assumed his earlier will divided everything between the three of us. His children. But we didn’t know for sure. We didn’t even know who his lawyer was. This morning Michael and I talked to those Marine Resources guys, and after Michael left for a walk I thought of Dad’s safe.”
“He’s always had one?”
“I remember it from when I was a kid. I used to steal chocolates from a stash he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.” Luke pointed at a drawer. “He put them in the safe, to keep them away from me. I knew they were there. But when I asked for one he’d just say, ‘They’re safe.’ And laugh.”
I couldn’t help smiling. It sounded like a father’s response. Jeremy sat up a little and leaned against the wall, but didn’t get out of the corner.
“So you remembered the safe.”
Luke nodded. “I’d only been up here a few times in the past dozen years, and I certainly hadn’t checked out the safe. But I suspected it was still here. I thought maybe he’d have put a copy of his will inside.”
“You decided to find out.”
He nodded.
“With Silas’s gun?”
“Last night, after I took it from him, I hid it in a cabinet in the kitchen. I didn’t want the gun. I just didn’t want Silas to have it. He was drunk, and talking nonsense about how he and Abbie had waited long enough for their share of the Lawrence money, and how they deserved it, because they weren’t rich New Yorkers, like Michael and I.”
“Rich New Yorkers.”
“That’s what they said. When Michael’s been whining all weekend that with Dad gone he won’t be able to pay his rent. Apparently Dad’s been paying Michael’s expenses for years. Without monthly checks, he has no income.” Luke sighed. “I told him it was time to grow up. That even if he was going to inherit a lot of money, it would take months for the estate to be settled.”
At least six months, in Maine.
“Michael started asking me for money. A loan to get him by until his publisher came through with his advance.”
“He sold a book of poetry?” asked Jeremy, who was still crouching on the floor.
“I guess.” Luke shrugged. “I was pretty pissed at him by then. He’s been drunk most of the weekend and he stunk of Scotch. I told him he had to grow up and get a job. If he couldn’t get a job teaching, then maybe he’d be a good bartender. He certainly knew enough about drinks.” Luke looked embarrassed. “Guess I came on pretty strong. He was furious. Said I was a selfish bastard, just like our father. That’s when I got Silas to bed. I left Michael downstairs, opening another bottle of scotch.”
“You haven’t said why you fired the gun this morning.”
Luke’s shoulders slumped. “Guess I’ve watched too many movies. I found the safe, and tried to open it. Tried all the combinations I could think of, but nothing worked. Even tried to pick the lock with a paper clip.”
“That wouldn’t work!” said Jeremy, who’d been listening carefully. “Ted had a double combination. You needed both sets of numbers to open it.”
“Well, anyway, I was so frustrated, I shot at the lock. Guess that doesn’t work like in the movies. The safe didn’t open. The bullet bounced off and hit the stained-glass window above it.”
“That window was custom made for your dad,” said Jeremy. One of his hands was dripping blood. “It was of Saint Catherine. She’s the patron saint of artists.”
“I didn’t know that. But I knew I’d been stupid. I went out through the gallery to get some fresh air. Then I came back in here . . . and found that idiot”—he pointed at Jeremy—“fumbling with the combination lock.”
Jeremy stayed on the floor, as though protecting himself, or the safe. “I wasn’t fumbling. Ted gave me the combination because he trusted me. He kept checks in there from this gallery, and sometimes petty cash. But he was most worried about his customer lists and tax records.” Jeremy looked at all of us, as though asking for understanding. “Gallery records. They’re critical. Irreplaceable.”
“So what are you doing here, trying to open this safe now?”
Jeremy brushed the pieces of glass off his legs, staining his jeans with streaks of blood as he stood up. “Same as you, I guess. I thought maybe his will was in there. I wanted to know what he’d planned to do with the gallery.”
“So why didn’t you ask? Why sneak in here?”
“I didn’t plan to. I just came in, and saw the glass, and thought of the will, and tried.”
Luke walked closer to the safe. “But it isn’t open.”
“You did a good job with that gun, Luke. You messed up the lock. The combination doesn’t work anymore. Maybe a locksmith could help. But the combination won’t help now.”
“Shit,” said Luke. “What a way to begin the day.”
“We heard the gunshot and were afraid someone was hurt,” I explained. “We hadn’t planned to come into the house or bother you.”
“I’m bleeding,” Jeremy pointed out, glaring at Luke. “I need to wash my hand and get some bandages. I know where they are in the kitchen.”
We all headed back to the kitchen, where Sarah bandaged Jeremy’s hand.
“There’s a glass replacement place out on Route One. They make house calls for emergency repairs to windows. You should probably call them,” I suggested. “They can at least make sure rain doesn’t come in. If you want the stained glass repaired, there’s a guy down in East Boothbay who could do that for you.”
Luke nodded. “Thanks. I’ll do something.”
“We came here this morning to clean up the beach,” said Patrick. “It’s done. All the tools and wagons are in the barn, along with bags of garbage.”
“Thank you for that,” said Luke. “And sorry for what happened this morning.” He looked over at Jeremy. “When we find that will, you’ll hear about it. In the meantime, would you keep the gallery downtown open? I assume you have a key and can do that on your own.”
“I’d be happy to,” said Jeremy.
“Good. Now I suggest we all take the rest of the day off,” Luke said.
“It’s a sad time,” said Sarah.
“It is,” said Luke. “Tomorrow’s Monday. I’ve already made arrangements to stay here a couple of extra days. We’ll find Dad’s lawyer and get this will situation straightened out so everyone can relax a little.”
Sarah was family, and the others didn’t want her here. We needed to leave the rest of Ted’s family alone with their empty bottles and their memories.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Let ev’ry virtue reign within thy breast,
That heaven approves, or makes its owner blest.
To candour, truth and charity divine,
The modest, decent, lovely virtues join,
Let wit well temper’d meet with sense refind’d,
And ev’ry thought express the polished mind.”
—Hannah Graves (1806-1864) made this sampler in 1818 in Whately, Massachusetts. (It is now in the collection of Historic Deerfield.) Hannah was the oldest of eight children. When she was eighteen she married Banister Morton in Hatfield, Massachusetts.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let Sarah drive off alone. Jeremy was upset, too. I didn’t know how they felt—but I was on the verge of tears.
And it hadn’t been my uncle who’d died, or my cousins who’d thrown me out.
My mind kept swirling around issues that didn’t make sense.
I understood Ted’s body was weakened from cancer. But what were the chances that he would die from a “bad clam,” as folks around here would say, and no one else have a twinge of trouble?
Yes, Dr. Mercer had said that could happen. But was it logical? I kept going over Saturday in my head. The clammers had said they’d gone to several different places. Maybe they’d only dug one clam in a bad flat and Ted had been unlucky enough to eat that one.
It could have happened that way.
I found myself driving to Dave’s house. He hadn’t been involved in this whole mess. Maybe he’d have the answers. And I wouldn’t have to explain the situation to him: he’d come to the hospital last night when I’d needed him. We’d needed him.
