"I begin to — I think I'm going to — intervene. But Gordon speaks first. 'Whatever else has happened, they need you now,' he says quietly to her. 'You're imperiling us all when you delay. Please. Come.'
"He holds out his hand to her. She stands there, for a short lifetime. I can see that she's agonizing whether to believe him. Finally, she gives a long sigh ... and comes out from behind the dollhouse ... and goes away with him."
Tremblay stared into indeterminate space, his jaw a little slack, his eyes dull and unseeing. "It was the last time," he said at last, "I ever saw her."
****
This is her story? Meg thought, crushed with disappointment. She glanced at Tom. There is no more? But of course there was. Tom, at least, knew it. And he was waiting for it.
And in the meantime Orel Tremblay was looking at Meg with a sad and considering gaze. "You're right," he said in a shaky, surprised voice. "You're not at all her spitting image."
"She was telling the truth, wasn't she," Meg whispered.
Tremblay dropped his gaze from her and nodded. "When she walked past me with her head so high, that's when I saw the marks, black-and-blue and crystal-clear: the imprints of four fingers on her arm. I don't know how I missed ‘em when she come in. Her cape must've covered them."
"And you let her go," Meg said. "You let him go."
"Something you must not do," Tremblay said with a penetrating look at Meg.
"But how was it possible?" asked Meg. "Everyone was evacuating. When would he — how could he —? No, I really don't see it," she said firmly, picturing the chaos of that night. "Besides, it would be a tremendous risk. My grandmother certainly would've reported him to you or the police or someone."
"No risk at all," Tremblay said with a black look.
"That's a very serious charge," Tom said quickly.
Meg, puzzled, stared at the two of them.
"Well, think about it," Tremblay retorted. "The big estates was fallin' like dominoes ... everyone was half hysterical... confusion all around ..."
It dawned on Meg at last. "Excuse me, wait a minute. You're not talking about rape anymore, are you? You're talking about ... murder? You're saying that Gordon Camplin raped my grandmother and then murdered her?" Meg asked, breathless with shock.
"Make him pay," Tremblay said grimly.
"But—but what proof do you have?" Meg wanted to know. Her hazel eyes were wide with emotion. "You weren't even there! You were here, with this ... this dollhouse," she said, regarding it with sudden loathing.
"That's right," Tremblay said, wincing, as if her words were a slap in the face. "I loaded the dollhouse onto the truck, threw a tarp over it and the furnishings, and left it as near as I could to the Field. Then I joined the rest of the town. By then there were a couple thousand people milling on the waterfront, waiting to be carried off by boat. In all the confusion I never did hook up with the Camplins and the others. Everyone'd got scattered."
Tremblay didn't have to recount that last, legendary scene, which had since passed into history. All the world, and certainly Meg and Allie, knew of it: knew of the huge line of fire that enveloped the townspeople to the north and to the west, and the wild, gale-driven sea that offered their only refuge, to the east. Knew of the bright, moonlit sky that hovered over the black, billowing smoke, and the thundering roar of the wind that drowned out their anxious, awestruck chatter.
Twenty-five hundred people survived a night of almost biblical terror. The devil had licked at their heels, and then — when the road to Hull's Cove suddenly opened — angels had led them to safety. The twenty-five hundred were members of a very exclusive club — but her grandmother was not.
Tremblay's strength was fading fast. "In the investigation," he said in a dry whisper, "Gordon Camplin told the police that the last he saw of Margaret was when they were on the way to the main house. Supposedly she changed her mind and decided to return to the carpenter's cottage, to evacuate with me."
He shook his head. "What could I say? It sounded plausible. Even I wanted to believe it."
Meg's mind was working clearly now. "How did they account for my grandmother's ending up in the main house?"
"Anybody's guess. The Camplin family had already gone on to the Field. Gordon's version is he made a quick pass alone through the house and left. My version is he saw the chance of a lifetime and took it."
"No witnesses," murmured Tom. "No crime scene ... nothing left at all. I take it you didn't offer your version of events to the police," he said to Tremblay in that dry tone Meg knew so well.
Again Tremblay shook his head. "Who woulda believed me? Gordon was one of the heroes of the evening. He was all places at once, helping the early ones onto the boats and then later, after the road opened back up, helping the firefighters make a stand at Eden and West Streets, even though his own Eagle's Nest was gone by then."
"No, I'm sorry, I can't accept this, Mr. Tremblay," said Meg. "It's too crazy."
"Don't call me crazy!" the old man said in a croaking roar. Tom silenced Meg with a single look and said, "What you've told us needs to be thought over very carefully, Mr. Tremblay. It's a very serious charge."
"Make him pay," Tremblay repeated doggedly. And then, with sudden, unarguable fatigue, he said, "I'm done."
****
On the other side of Tremblay's front door Tom gave Meg a sharp look and said, "Are you okay?"
Meg took a deep draught of fresh air and let it out in a rush that left her weaving. "I ... don't know. I'm pretty overwhelmed."
"You're white as a sheet," Tom said, alarmed. He slipped his arm around Meg to steady her. "Let's get you home," he said.
He led her to the car and they drove in silence for a few minutes until Meg's light-headedness passed.
"Well?" she asked in a voice still faint. "What do you think?"
"I think your Mr. Tremblay makes a convincing witness," Tom said carefully.
"Do you believe him?" she asked, rejecting Tom's evasive answer.
"I haven't decided."
"You don't decide about believing someone. You either believe or you don't."
"Okay; I believe I haven't decided."
"Damn it, Tom! Why are you being this way?"
"I'm just your ride, remember? That's all."
"It's not all. You came in. You heard him. You can't just pretend —" She sighed and started over. "Let's just assume that a witness came to you who you thought was reliable. Wouldn't you have an obligation to investigate his story?"
Tom said, "If I believed Tremblay's story, the only obligation I'd have would be to pass it on to the proper authorities, in this case, Chief Dobney."
"Chief Dobney! Oh, but you can't do that! Not yet!" Meg said, aghast. "This is still a family affair!"
"Look, Meg, this isn't The Rockford Files. I'm not a private eye — ah, there's Allie," Tom said, obviously relieved.
****
Allie was sitting dejectedly on the bottom step of the front porch, her chin resting on one fist, her other fist clutching the forgotten white bakery bag.
Wyler parked the car on the street, wondering how he'd let himself get sucked into this latest turn of events. God. If it wasn't one sister, it was the other.
He slipped from the front seat to get Meg's door. No question about it, Tremblay's story had grabbed them both by the throats. But Wyler had managed to shake off the old man's grip. Meg, he could see, was having a harder time of it. She was still sitting in the front seat, upset and completely caught up in the tale.
As for Wyler, he'd told Meg the truth: he didn't know whether to believe the old man or not. But even if he had believed Tremblay's story, he wouldn't have admitted it to Meg. He knew instinctively that she was the kind of woman who'd want him to investigate immediately and solve the crime in a day or two, just like on TV.
He had his own unsolved mysteries, a drawerful of them:
They were bloody, they were recent, and there was nothing speculative about them. He wanted to explain th
at to Meg — although he had no idea why it mattered — but right now Allie made that impossible. She'd taken one look at her sister's face and, dropping the abandoned-waif routine, had come running.
"What's happened? Where were you?" she demanded to know.
"Tremblay's," said Meg. "I'll tell you all about it." She turned to Wyler, her eyes bright and hard. "Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant," she said, clearly dismissing him.
"Wait, Tom; you're not leaving?" cried Allie.
Wyler turned from Allie's violet, don't-go gaze to Meg's get-the-hell-out-of-here look. One sister seemed to cancel out the other.
"Will I see you later tonight?" Allie asked, breaking the deadlock.
Wyler glanced at Meg. It seemed like a good time to make her understand that his interest in the Atwells family was social and not professional. "Love to," he said. "How about seven?"
As he walked away, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Whether it was from Allie's smoldering look, or Meg's, he wasn't too sure.
After he left, Meg sat down on the bottom step with Allie and told her all she'd learned from Tremblay.
When she finished, Allie, agape, said, "He must be senile."
"I don't think so, Allie. If what he's saying is true —"
"You're crazy, Meg! Camplin comes back here every summer; everyone knows that. Even divorce hasn't stopped him. And it's not like the guy has turned into a guilty recluse or anything. He's just as active in society as his ex-wife. Why would he come back to the scene of the crime year after year?"
"What scene?" Meg asked. "There is no scene, not after the fire." She plucked a dandelion that was growing in a crack in the sidewalk. "If there really was a crime, we're going to have to tread carefully. I want you to promise me — promise me — that you won't breathe a word of this morning's visit with Mr. Tremblay to anyone. I need time to think."
"Fine with me," Allie said, shaking her head skeptically. "I think the whole thing's a fantasy, anyway."
Chapter 6
Dusk, and the mosquitoes, had come and gone, and Meg was on the porch swing, alone. No one came out to sit with her, and she couldn't blame them. She'd been scary to be around ever since the day Orel Tremblay had first summoned her. Jumpy, irritable, all her senses heightened — she'd never felt such edginess, as if something momentous or horrible or shocking or joyful — or all of the above, for all she knew — was about to happen. She thought of animals in the field, jittery before a storm: that was how she felt.
She pulled her shawl more closely around her and gave the worn gray floor of the porch a shove with her foot, sending the wooden seat swinging and squeaking on its chains.
It was Orel Tremblay's fault. He'd summoned her from a very busy, very useful, very ordinary life and handed her a dilemma she couldn't possibly resolve.
If she went after Gordon Camplin, a prominent member of Bar Harbor society, she ran the very real risk of being sued for slander. Like all business people who dealt with the public, Meg had a healthy fear of liability. The ceilings of the Inn Between might need a new coat of paint, but all the smoke detectors worked, and the fire exits were clearly marked.
On the other hand, if Meg ignored Orel Tremblay's story, then Gordon Camplin would go free. Well, obviously he'd been free, for all of his — what? Seventy-five years now? Was it worth it to deny one old man a few years of freedom just to satisfy another old man's dying wish to avenge a woman whom Meg had never even known?
She wasn't sure. Maybe that was where the jitteriness came from. Indecisiveness wasn't Meg's thing. She sighed, aware that the decision, when it did come, would be hers alone. The rest of the family had too many concerns on their minds than to go rummaging in the past looking for more: Comfort had the twins to worry about, and Lloyd had Comfort, and Everett Atwells had his advancing age. Allie had Tom Wyler. And Meg? Meg had all of them to worry about.
And now Margaret Mary Atwells as well. That might make one too many generations for Meg to handle. She shook her head, laughing under her breath. Where had all this mother-hen-ness come from, anyway? She told herself that she'd merely stepped into the void left by her mother's death. She told herself that if her mother hadn't died so young, Meg Hazard would be living on a houseboat on the Intracoastal Waterway and earning her living as a wildlife photographer.
Meg gazed out at the moon, silver and solitary and somehow cruel, that hung in the late-evening sky. Trouble is, she thought, I'm too young to be matriarch of this clan. On a night like this, with a moon like that, I'm definitely too young.
The sounds of a man's voice, and laughter, low and melodious, drifted through the darkness to mock her thoughts. It was Allie's laugh, with something new in it, something ... surprised and delighted. Allie didn't surprise easily. She'd had too many men cut open their veins and spill their desire at her feet. What could Tom Wyler possibly be saying that surprised and delighted her?
Meg gave herself another push on the porch swing. Creak, creak. Creak, creak.
"Whoops ... occupied," she heard Allie say.
And then the voices turned and faded, hers and the lieutenant's, and Meg sat alone for a long while, wondering how it was that Allie could feel so convinced that he was the one.
****
Allie had risen before dawn for the long drive down to Boston to interview at a Days Inn there. She was trying to save on travel expenses whenever she could, and Meg appreciated that. She just hoped Allie didn't get an offer to interview at the Maui Prince Hotel. They'd have to take out a third mortgage on the Inn Between.
Meg was helping Comfort put out a continental breakfast of cranberry muffins and poppy-seed cake for their guests when Lieutenant Wyler showed up at the kitchen door. Meg let him in and was surprised to see that the cane was back.
"I overdid it last night," he admitted. "Your sister is convinced that I can walk away my wounds."
"Her degree's in hospitality, not hospitals," Meg reminded him. "In any case, you're safe for now. She's in Boston. As you know," she added, just in case he didn't.
"Sure," he said easily. He handed Meg a windbreaker that Allie had left behind. "Actually, I plan to hobble across the sandbar to Bar Island at low tide," he said, glancing at his watch.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Allie says it's the tourist thing to do." He looked at Meg thoughtfully and said softly, "How're you doing today?"
"Oh ... better than yesterday. Although I have to admit, this thing about my grandmother is obsessing me." She shrugged helplessly. "I could use some advice," she said with a beseeching look.
"Yeah, well — I'd better be off," he said in a tone that struck her as practically rude. "You know what they say: time and tide wait for no one." He started backpedaling out of the kitchen.
Meg felt like a patient who'd tried to get her dentist to look at a tooth in the middle of Main Street. She gave him a be-that-way look and said, "Lieutenant? Don't forget: After the tide rolls out — it rolls back in."
"Elemental physics," he agreed, looking back at her with a dry half smile.
****
The walk down to Bridge Street was shorter and easier than Wyler had anticipated. Allie was right: walking helped.
He was surprised at how quiet the town was, even allowing that it was a weekday. How did Bar Harbor manage to survive on a tourist economy? Give him a big city like Chicago with its broad shoulders anytime; at least it was diverse. Still, there was a certain tattered charm about Bar Harbor that he found appealing. It didn't pretend to be anything more than it was: a once-grand watering hole humbled by a war, a Depression, a fire, and the income tax, not necessarily in that order.
He was aware that old — very old — money still summered here. But they were being mighty discreet about it; Bar Harbor was no Southampton. He liked that too. Why rub everyone else's face in it? It only led to class warfare. He daydreamed in a general way about the gap between rich and poor, between master and servant, and that led him, inevitably, to Meg's grandmother.
Th
e way he saw it, Margaret Mary Atwells's case had two parts to it: (1) was she murdered, and (2) did it matter. The knee-jerk answers were: no and no. But even if someone were looking for trouble, even if someone were determined to find some irregularity in the victim's death, it still came down to this: it made no real difference. The course of history would not be changed, the flow of money would not be altered.
But, of course, Meg Hazard could do what she wanted. Just so long as she didn't drag him into it. He had no intention of spending a busman's holiday here. He swept aside all thoughts of Margaret Mary Atwells as he made his way to the damp and pebbly sandbar that was now fully exposed between the town and Bar Island.
He'd imagined a treacherous, narrow slit of sand cutting a swath through crashing seas. What he found was a sandbar the size of a highway, strewn about with rocks, with a calm and gentle sea receding from both sides of it.
He found that vastly reassuring. The plain fact was, Lieutenant Thomas Wyler, who'd seen more dead bodies than he'd ever care to count, bodies that had been run down, gunned down, cut up, burned, and strangled — this same fearless officer of homicide investigations was afraid — God, how he hated to have to admit it — of water.
He snorted out loud at the thought. He knew exactly where the phobia had come from, of course. It happened when he was seven and playing hooky from school. He'd headed straight for Humboldt Park, a green and peaceful Chicago oasis that nowadays was a haven for rival gangs — where before long he got hot and decided to take a dip in the pond. He'd stripped down to his underwear and struck out boldly. But the muddy bottom was so squishy and disgusting that he had no choice but to swim for deeper water.
Which would've worked out swell if he'd known how to swim. Instead, his feet had got bound up in seaweed, and he very nearly drowned before a passerby leapt in, fully clothed, and hauled him out, then rolled him over and gave him what used to be called artificial respiration. When he came to, the first thing he saw were leeches clinging to his ankles. To this day, the sight of seaweed swaying just beneath a water's surface made him nauseous.
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