“And the red shirt?” Elizabeth propped herself on one elbow.
“The red shirt was free enough to be on the trail at Seven Days Work during at least one afternoon,” Daggett lay back and stared at the pattern on the bedroom’s tin ceiling. Elizabeth had painted it an off-white.
“Wouldn’t that suggest that the man in the red shirt was not an islander?”
Daggett turned his head to face Elizabeth, “That’s another question altogether.”
“Are there others?”
“Well,” Daggett wiggled his toes, “just who was John Thomas Bush? Why did he use an alias? Is Bush a second alias? And what was he doing on Grand Manan?”
“Four good questions.”
“And here’s a fifth,” Daggett reached over to push a stray hair off Elizabeth’s forehead and slip it behind her ear, “who on Grand Manan knew John Thomas Bush?”
“Yes, that is a good one,” Elizabeth nestled her head on her husband’s shoulder.
Daggett reached to extinguish the light.
ERIC DAWSON heard the rustle a moment before Jocko’s puppy burst through the hedge. The Dawsons’ porch light caught the puppy in full flight. The moment it landed, it leapt again.
“A little late to be walking your dog, isn’t it?”
The sight of Little John Winslow struggling with his son’s puppy over a heavy string grocery sack filled with pink papers was as good as any slapstick in the moving pictures. Little John pulled, the puppy skidded. Then the puppy pulled, and Little John braced his legs. Then Little John began to tip forward.
“Need help?”
“Blasted dog,” Little John planted himself more firmly.
The puppy tugged and swayed. Finally Little John succeeded in raising the sack and brought it to rest on his chest.
“Jocko out this late?”
“In bed with the rest.”
The puppy yapped. Little John stuck a foot out to hold him at bay. The dog grabbed the toe of his boot began to wag Little John’s foot back and forth. Little John ignored him.
“Here,” he handed a sheaf of papers to Eric, “might as well lighten my load.”
Eric raised the top page up to the light.
“Got to distribute these. All of them. Special edition I helped put together,” Little John’s mustache twitched once above his grin.
Emblazoned just below the Recipe Exchange was The Dragon Lady, followed by a recipe consisting chiefly of ladyfingers topped with red frosting. Directly across from The Dragon Lady, in equally large letters, appeared Daggett’s Delight, A Rocky Beach Fudge.
“Can’t you and Eva McDaniels find something else to make jokes about?”
“Murder is no joke.” Little John shook his foot, but the puppy’s sharp teeth held tight.
XV
“NOTHING LIKE THIS has ever happened before,” Geneva Andrews exclaimed at the door of the room John Thomas Bush had occupied. The door stood open.
Daggett studied the room’s disheveled contents. Drawers from both bureau and wash stand littered the bed. Blankets and sheets and the bed’s yellow chenille spread trailed off its edge and onto the floor. Pillows lay rumpled, one still on its side, its case half torn. Only the rocker remained as it was.
“I just came up to clean Mr. Brown’s room, the next guest comes today,” Geneva rushed through her explanation, “and this is what I found.”
“His name turns out not to be Brown, Geneva,” the cadence of Daggett’s speech was thoughtful. “It was apparently Bush, John Thomas Bush.”
“He lied about his name?”
Daggett watched Geneva’s eyes grow large.
“Seems so.”
“Frightening business this, Constable,” Harvey Andrews’ heavy tread came up the stairs behind them. Harvey nodded toward the open door of the room, “No idea anything might be wrong in here. Never heard a thing.”
Both the stairs and the hallway were carpeted. A thin carpet also covered most of the floor in the room.
“It could have happened any time between Wednesday and today.”
Harvey put his arm around his wife.
Geneva seemed about to cry.
“No one needed the room, so we just left it the way it was after you took his things away.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” Daggett moved forward.
Harvey nodded, “Why would anyone search a room when it was clear that all of Mr. Brown’s … or Mr. Bush’s,” Harvey caught himself, “that all of Mr. Bush’s personal belongings had been removed?”
“That’s a mystery, all right,” Geneva perked up.
Of the two windows occupying the outer wall, one stood open. Not unusual for July, Daggett glanced at the door. No marks near the latch.
“We don’t lock our doors,” Harvey followed the course of Daggett’s gaze. “Never felt the need. May have to now, I suppose.”
“I doubt it. This doesn’t change much on a permanent basis,” Daggett bent down to check under the bed. “Whoever did this probably won’t do anything like it again. Not here anyway,” he finished his inspection. “For now, though, I would like for everyone to stay out of this room,” Daggett pulled the door shut, wrapping his hand first in his handkerchief. “Just until I come back to dust for prints, you understand,” he smiled his reassurance.
“I’m sure Constable Daggett will take care of everything,” Geneva’s responding smile was meant to be brave.
“Back stairs?” Daggett glanced again at Harvey.
“Around the corner there,” Harvey nodded toward the hallway that ran from the main staircase to the rear of the building, “goes down to the kitchen.”
“I’ll have a look,” Daggett led the way, “then I’d like to see your guest list again.”
CONSTABLE DAGGETT would simply have to wait until later that evening for the S. S. Grand Manan to return from St. Andrews, Rob Feeney repeated. No way to tell who the passengers would be before the steamer docked in North Head. Yes, Agent Feeney would be happy to give Daggett the lists of passengers and crew from the day John Thomas Bush died. Yes, Feeney had been on the crossing with John Thomas Bush, though he remembered little beyond his suit and his eyes. Especially his eyes. And yes, the fellow named Matthew Johnson had arrived at the dock this morning in time for the crossing. Feeney had noticed he was a little out of breath. Feeney knew him by sight. One of that foursome at Swallowtail. Modern, wealthy, played a lot of tennis. Or so it would seem from his clothes.
Daggett nodded hello to Feeney’s assistant, the pleasant young man named Dobbs, and settled into the chair next to Feeney’s desk. His body felt heavy. He glanced over the list Feeney handed him of Tuesday’s passengers and crew. No surprises there. Feeney kept a neat desk. Daggett tucked the list into his pocket and retrieved his notebook. He opened it against his knee and directed Feeney’s attention to this morning.
The steamer had left at seven, with stops at Campobello, Eastport, and Cumming’s Grove. It arrived in St. Andrews at eleven and would turn around again to make all the same stops, leaving St. Andrews at one-thirty that afternoon and arriving in North Head sometime around seven, depending on the tides. Rob Feeney had no way of knowing who would be on it. Passengers often bought their tickets on board.
Between Tuesday afternoon, when John Thomas Bush had died, and Friday evening, most of those who had come and gone were islanders, Rob Feeney was sure of that. On Wednesday, a party of three arrived, headed for The Anchorage. Young women, all regulars from New York. Feeney remembered them from the previous year. They laughed a lot and told funny stories. On Thursday, three older women for Rose Cottage and on Friday, a family of four for The Marathon. The women came from Massachusetts. The family were Canadians, Rob believed, from Montreal. Business was unusually slow this year.
As for those leaving the island, two sets of two from Rose Cottage left on Wednesday, along with a threesome from The Marathon and a couple from Swallowtail. Wednesday’s passengers had disembarked, as usual, at the various ports between Gran
d Manan and St. Stephen. Thursdays, the steamer was unavailable for outward bound travel, the constable knew that. On Friday, only a single non-islander was outward bound, a man from The Swallowtail Inn. Boarding with him was Burt Isaacs.
Wednesday’s twosome from The Swallowtail were the Reimers, the Friday solitaire was Jackson Knoll. The Reimers were older, white haired, probably retired. Knoll was thirtyish and muscular with dark curly hair. He stood well over six feet tall and wore a dark green windbreaker with light pants and a tie. He seemed extremely athletic and fit. Rob Feeney was certain Isaacs was traveling with him.
Daggett remembered Knoll from his handwriting on The Swallowtail register. The pen had spread to accommodate him. Jackson Knoll from Toronto. When questioned, Knoll had said he did not know Mr. Brown or anyone else on the island. Daggett had thought it unnecessary to question him further. An oversight, perhaps serious. Daggett would wire Toronto.
According to Feeney, Isaacs had said little to Knoll and nothing at all to Rob Feeney. But Isaacs and Knoll were definitely traveling together, the agent declared. And they knew each other, he was sure of that. They shared a certain level of comfort in each other’s proximity.
“You can always tell when people know each other,” Rob Feeney explained, “you just know. You don’t always know how you know, but you do. Friends, relatives, lovers, married couples. Maybe you don’t know what they are to each other, but you can feel the connection. There’s a certain ease between them. It’s like overhearing a conversation without words. You know?”
Daggett said he did.
There may have been a flicker of familiarity between Isaacs and that fellow Bush, too. Rob Feeney paused to remember but he couldn’t be certain.
Daggett cleared his throat and turned a page in his notebook.
This morning, at any rate, had been a different matter, according to Feeney. No one seemed to know anyone else. Crossing with Matthew Johnson were the Ridleys, a middle-aged couple from Rose Cottage, and Richard Miller, a young man from The Marathon. Feeney exchanged pleasantries with each of the men before they boarded, but none of them had talked to anyone else. The Rose Cottage couple kept entirely to themselves.
Feeney had no idea why Johnson was traveling alone or where he was going. Daggett thought again about Johnson’s claim that he used separations to maintain his marriage.
“IT is a scandal,” James Enderby’s hand found its way to his vest, “an absolute scandal.” Enderby hooked his right thumb in his watch pocket. His other hand grasped a bag of fresh sugar donuts, “The notion of Sabra Jane Briggs as some sort of scarlet woman is preposterous.”
“Surely people will see how silly this is,” Jesse Martin agreed.
Edith spread the large pink sheet of paper on the counter next to the bakery’s cash register and read it through carefully. “Ludicrous,” she agreed when she finished reading. “And they call her a murderer,” her voice raised in rare emphasis, “such nonsense.”
“Some folks are talking about asking the constable to interfere,” Emma Parker brought a tray of lemon cupcakes from the back room to the display case.
“Well, censorship is never …”
“Confiscate all those papers, I say,” Emma’s gray curls bounced in Edith’s direction.
“If you ask me,” Jesse Martin interrupted, her blue eyes flashing, “Constable Daggett should arrest the pair of them. Recipes are one thing, jokes or no. But this,” Jesse stabbed her finger at the article entitled VIXEN SKIRTS CONSTABLE, “this has got to break some kind of law.” The byline announced the author as J. Winslow, Sr.
“Perhaps Miss Briggs or Constable Daggett will consider bringing suit,” James Enderby raised his hand from his watch fob and cleared his throat.
“Wouldn’t bother me to see the constable throw Mr. J. Winslow, Sr. into jail,” Emma Parker unloaded her tray three donuts at a time. “Teach him a lesson.”
“Make life easier for his wife too,” Jesse Martin giggled.
“ALL of North Head is incensed,” Edith reported to the women of Whale Cove, who were gathering in the dining room for their noon meal.
“It’s too bad. It’s just too bad,” Jacobus shook her head and set the coffee pot down long enough to order Matt out of the dining room.
Matt’s tail drooped but she began her lone journey through the sitting room and out the front door.
“It’s not libel they should be arrested for so much as bad writing,” Ethelwyn Manning raised her eyes from the pink sheet in her hands.
Jacobus chuckled.
“And even worse jokes,” Katherine Schwartz nudged Manning, who turned the sheet over. They continued to read.
“I had not planned to go with you to The Anchorage this evening,” Eloise Derby took a moment to smooth the material of her blue skirt before drawing her legs under the table and draping a napkin across her lap, “but I believe now I shall. Miss Briggs needs our support.”
“Voorhees the Viking and Brunnhilde Briggs,” Peter Coney called from the kitchen door as though advertising a burlesque show. A serving girl with a large tray squeezed past her.
“It’s going to be a delightful evening,” Winifred Bromhall breezed into the dining room.
“Valkyries to the rescue,” Margaret Byington called from across the room.
Willa flourished a fist.
Everyone laughed.
Edith joined in. She loved to hear them laugh.
“I can hardly wait until evening,” Margaret’s voice carried more energy than usual. “You’ll join us, won’t you?” She pulled out her chair between Willa and Edith.
“I’m afraid not, and I’m actually sorry we won’t be going with you this time,” Willa looked rueful.
“Sabra Jane will be in rare form, you know.”
“Brunnhilde Briggs, indeed,” Winifred Bromhall sat down opposite Margaret. She put a hand on Willa’s arm, “You and Edith really should come with us.”
“I’m sure there’ll be room,” Margaret was hearty. “Claude Gilmore is driving.”
Edith looked at Willa, who smiled back, her expression shifting from sad to mirthfull. “I’m afraid not. But this way,” she turned to Margaret, “we’ll have your breakfast stories to look forward to.
“Stories are better when the audience doesn’t know the plot, you know,” Willa reached into the basket of fresh biscuits the serving girl placed before her.
“Yes,” Edith laughed, “but we’ll let you in on something not exactly in their script at the moment. Watch for the horns on their helmets. They’re in grave danger of sudden removal.”
“Those sort of Valkyrie cattle horn affairs?” Margaret raised her hands and drew them away as though she were shaping a pair of horns on her head.
“That’s right,” Willa approved of the demonstration, “they’re made of papier mache.”
“Yesterday while we were working on the wall,” Edith explained, “Sabra Jane described their costumes to us.”
“And confided that they had a desperate problem. They ran out of glue and could find none on the island,” Willa finished Edith’s thought.
“Perhaps we have some glue,” Mary Jordan interrupted from the next table. Her eyes reflected concern.
“I’m sure we must have some here somewhere,” Jacobus finished filling Mary’s cup and moved over to their table, “I’ll have a look.”
“Are you quite certain you won’t join us tonight?” Alice Jordan leaned across to address Edith.
“I’m afraid running around in the night has taken its toll on us,” Willa pointed to Edith’s bandages.
“This whole incident,” Edith confided, “has been, well, frankly unsettling.”
“You both must be exhilarated and exhausted at the same time,” Jacobus switched pots to pour Sanka in Willa’s cup.
“Exactly,” Willa took a sip.
“The truth is,” Edith added, “Willa is falling behind in her writing, and we simply cannot let that happen. She’s had too many interruptions already with
her poor, painful thumb and trips to California to be with her mother. So tonight we turn in early.”
“Hmmm,” Margaret nodded with understanding, “and disruptive business this, death and detection.”
“Too disruptive,” Willa agreed, “makes morning schedules unworkable.”
“Morning schedules are always unworkable,” Margaret growled.
“No, no,” Winifred concurred with Willa, “it’s late nights that make mornings impossible. Whenever I’m working on a publisher’s deadline, I cannot allow myself even an evening for the theater. It’s not the time away or the sleepy morning after,” she helped herself to a biscuit, “it’s the distraction. I cannot get my mind back into an illustration no matter how interesting the work.”
“Precisely,” Willa nodded.
“We do understand, but should you change your mind anyway,” Alice Jordan left her thought unfinished.
“Thank you,” Edith ladled herself a portion of savory mutton stew.
“But you forget,” Willa passed the butter, “I also have a reputation to maintain as an irascible recluse.” Her eyes crinkled again.
“Let’s hear it for the irascibles,” Margaret’s laughter rolled out.
“That’s American slang for the Valkyries, isn’t it?” Winifred liked to be sly.
WE generally put the singles in the rear wing. That is what Harvey Andrews had said, nodding toward the hallway that led eventually to Swallowtail’s back stairs. Daggett rested his hand midway down the page of his notebook and with his other hand loosened the buttons on his jacket. They’re usually not as particular as married folks, that was Harvey’s explanation.
But John Thomas Bush had been particular, according to Harvey. He had arranged to have himself placed exactly in the middle of the front section, in a bedroom next to the suite of rooms occupied by the Johnsons and diagonally across from the Jamesons.
On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery Page 15
