by Barbara Ross
“It’s such a shock,” Pru said. “But then it must have been for you, too. You found him.”
“It was,” I agreed.
Jason’s son, Kirk, made his way into the kitchen and opened the shiny, double-doored refrigerator. He left a plate on the kitchen island while he poured cold soda into a plastic cup. He was about thirteen, round-shouldered and miserable. My father had died when I was twenty-five and I still wasn’t over it. How could this poor kid cope?
“Thank you for coming,” Pru said to me. “Please stay and eat something.”
I fixed myself a plate of food, ham, potato salad, baked beans, and bread and butter pickles, and sat in the living room with Livvie and Pru’s friends. A huge television dominated the room. Various gaming devices sat on a shelf below it. The leather couch was so new it still smelled like a baseball glove. The women in the room were lobstermen’s wives, all married with children. Being with them reminded me how out of step I was. I picked up my plate and went out to the deck.
There were half a dozen women deep in conversation crowded on the built-in benches at one end of the deck. At the other end a lone woman sat eating at the picnic table.
“I’m Julia.” I sat down across from her.
“Aggie,” the woman said. “Pru’s sister.”
Once she said it, I caught the resemblance. Aggie had the same sharp nose, round eyes, high forehead and wavy hair, though Aggie’s was shot through with gray.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Not my loss.” She glanced at the women at the other end of the deck to make sure no one was listening. “I never liked the man. But I feel bad for my sister and the kids.”
Her admission startled me. People so rarely said something negative about the recently deceased, especially to a stranger. Her frankness made me bold. “Why didn’t you like him?”
“He was a petty thief and general jerk when he and Pru first got together. And though he backed away from that life eventually, there were the other women.”
“While he and Pru were married?”
Aggie didn’t waver. “While they were dating, engaged, married, divorced. It never stopped. That man was a continuous flirt. Women, men, animals, if it had a pulse he’d flirt with it. He could make you feel like the most special person in the world, but really it was all about him and his ego. He needed you to find him charming. Sometimes, with women, it went too far. At least a few times a year.”
“Is that why he and Pru divorced?”
“Yes. She ignored it for as long as she could, but then she was done with him.”
“She must still have had feelings,” I said. “She seemed jealous of a woman Jason was seeing this summer.”
Aggie put down her fork and offered the blunt response I’d already come to expect from her. “If you’re asking me if my sister killed her ex-husband, the answer is no.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I would love to tell you it’s because I know my sister and she is the salt of the earth. She is not. Like all of us, she has issues, though I don’t believe she could murder anyone in cold blood, much less the father of her kids. But the reason I’m sure is that fancy car over there.” Aggie pointed with her chin to the end of the driveway where a gigantic, black, late-model SUV sat parked. “She’s not going to kill the goose who lays the golden eggs.”
“Jason bought that?” In addition to Jason’s lobster boat, there were the new appliances in the updated kitchen, the new furniture and tech in the living room, and this expensive vehicle. Pru worked long hours at the clambake during the season, where we didn’t pay her enough, and in the cafeteria at the high school where she was similarly poorly paid. Unless Pru had a hidden source of income, Jason must have paid for all of it.
“He did. For the first three years after the divorce he was constantly behind on child support, and didn’t put a dime into this house, which he still half owned. But something changed the last couple of years. Nothing was too good for his kids or his house. He’s been pouring money into it. It made Pru so happy, and after everything she put up with all these years, she deserved it.”
“Where do you think all this money came from?” I asked.
“Lobstering, I assume. You know, landings have been way up these last few years. Jason upped his license, dropped more traps. It’s a boom and bust business, but mostly boom lately.”
I was skeptical that Jason’s fortune could turn around in two years entirely from lobstering. It was true the last couple of seasons had been record breakers, but as any lobsterman would tell you, when the catch was high, the prices were low, and when the prices were high, lobsters were scarce. It was a simple matter of supply and demand.
There didn’t seem like much to say after that. I said good-bye and told Aggie it was nice to meet her. Pru was in the living room. I gave her another hug on my way out. This wasn’t a day to have a private conversation.
Livvie walked me to the door. “Did you ask Pru why she didn’t come to work on Monday?” I said when we reached the front porch.
“I didn’t even have to bring it up. First thing when she saw me she apologized up and down. She said Kirk was sick.”
“Kirk is a teenager. Pru would only have stayed home with him if he was really ill.” Kirk had looked healthy if sorrowful in the kitchen half an hour earlier.
“Yeah,” Livvie agreed. “Pru hardly ever missed a day of work before, but when she did she always called to let me know.”
Chapter Sixteen
When I left Pru’s I went to Gus’s and parked in the little lot behind the kitchen door. Gus didn’t like me leaving my car there. “Parking’s scarce enough in this town. Leave it for the paying customers.” It was three o’clock, closing time, so I didn’t think he’d mind too much if I was only there for a few minutes.
I entered through the kitchen, passing the passage to the walk-in refrigerator and the stairs to my apartment. Gus was cleaning behind the counter. The front room of the restaurant was deserted.
“I left my car out back,” I told him as I poured the last of a pot of coffee into one of his white mugs.
“See you move it when you’re done,” Gus responded.
“I will. Is Bard here?”
“Ayup. In the dining room.”
From the front room I passed through the archway to the dining room. At the back of the otherwise empty room Sonny’s dad, Bard Ramsey, held court as he did most days. Bard had been a highliner, the label for a highly successful fisherman, or in his case lobsterman. But now that he was in his seventies, the hard physical work had taken a toll on his shoulders and hips, and he only went out when one of his sons, Sonny or Kyle, was available to help.
In the afternoons he went to Gus’s. He sat with the other old lobstermen. Some of them were retired, some semiretired like Bard, and some still pulled a full complement of traps before they arrived at Gus’s. Lobstering might seem like a solitary occupation, long hours alone on a boat, but the truth was most lobstermen chatted all day, either to the sternman—who was the assistant who baited the traps, threw the seaweed and miscellaneous creatures they caught back into the sea, and generally did the dirtiest of the dirty work—or over the radio to other lobstermen out on their boats. They had talked all their lives and they were still talking.
“Darlin’, happy to see ya.” Bard greeted me as I approached their table. The other men put down their forks or their coffee cups and stared openly. It wasn’t often they were interrupted.
“Hey, Bard. I have a quick question for you,” I called to him.
“Sit down, sit down.” Without rising he pulled a chair from the table behind him and squeezed it in next to him.
I sat down, lowering my coffee mug to the table. “I’ve been thinking about Jason Caraway’s boat,” I said.
One of the men whistled. “That’s a Cadillac of the Sea, that one.”
The others nodded their agreement.
“Decked out.”
“She’s a c
orkah, all right.”
“Spared no expense.”
This was the way lobstermen described boats they admired.
“Were you wondering what will happen to it?” Bard rubbed a beefy hand across his grizzled chin. He’d gotten spotty on shaving in his semiretirement and patches of white whiskers showed here and there. “I imagine his kids will sell it once it gets through probate.” He turned to the table. “One of you lads should buy it.”
That brought hoots and hollers.
“Still payin’ on the last one.”
“Only way I’d buy it is if it would take itself out in the harbor and haul the traps without me.”
“You’d don’t think that’s comin’? Robots will have us all out of work soon.”
“Sooner than that global warming?”
More laughter. Lobstermen were great observers of the weather, far more sensitive to minor changes in the ecosystem than most, and they were strong guardians of the lobster fishery, which had sustained itself long after many fish stocks had collapsed. But they were often skeptical of scientists who made pronouncements from the comfort of their offices and labs. After all, some of those same scientists had been predicting the demise of the lobster industry for decades, through the last few years of record catches. But the lobster fishery had collapsed further south in Rhode Island and Long Island, where warm water had brought shell disease, and then the lobsters had all but disappeared.
The truth was the lobsters’ life cycle was so obscure and complex neither side had the whole story. Each could have offered a lot to the other, though those dialogues rarely took place.
I attempted to get them back on track. “I was wondering about the Money Honey, because it’s pretty new and looks really expensive.”
“Ayup,” Bard agreed.
“The thing is, was Jason a highliner? The boat and the man, do they match?”
This time it was Bard who led the guffaws. “Jason Caraway a highliner? He was a dub if ever there was.” “Dub” was the word for a poor or inefficient lobsterman. One who used a lot of bait and fuel to find a small number of lobsters.
“But the boat,” I said. “Is it possible for a lobsterman to get better?”
“Sure, sure,” Bard answered. “Maybe he’d come into better places to put his traps because someone retired. And you do develop more knowledge as you go, a better understanding of where the little devils hide. But it’s mostly instinct. I can usually tell within a season if someone’s got it or not. If you don’t know how to read the bottom, you’re not going to improve much.”
“Then where do you think Jason got the money for the boat?” They must have speculated about it. Not much got by these guys.
“Probably borrowed up to his neck,” one of the men said.
“Secured by what? Would you loan him that kind of money?” someone else said. “I wouldn’t.”
“I heard Pru’s parents have money and they paid,” another said.
“I heard he came into some money when his dad passed away.”
“No. He told me directly he invested in a business, a lobster processing plant Down East that paid out big when they sold it.”
They all looked at one another, amused.
“Did anyone ask Jason directly?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, probably the IRS.” More laughter.
“Or the DEA.” There was more laughter, but then the table quieted. Drug smuggling wasn’t funny.
“Did you ever hear that Jason was making money off drugs?” I asked.
The men around the table remained silent. It was an obvious question, something I’d wondered about every time Jason had brought that big boat to Morrow Island. Running drugs from Canada did happen. Not so long ago, he might have been moving cheap prescription drugs for altruistic reasons, as Chris had done. Now, most often, it was the worst of the worst. Fentanyl shipped from China to Canada and then smuggled across the border on boats big and small.
The opioid epidemic had devastated the lobstering community as it had rural communities everywhere. Help-wanted ads for sternmen said, “No druggies.” Or, “I run a drug-free boat,” hoping to attract those who didn’t want to work with addicts. It had hit close to home for some of them. Bard’s son Kyle had been addicted to prescription opioids. He was clean now and working, but it had to be a constant source of worry.
“Anyone ever heard Jason Caraway was moving drugs?” Bard asked the men directly.
To a person, they shook their heads. If Jason had been involved with drugs there would have been rumors. The men at that table would have heard them, for sure.
“Anythin’ else?” Bard asked me.
I took my cue. “No. Thanks for your time.”
* * *
I’d left my phone in my car. My screen showed a message. Sergeant Flynn.
“Julia, it’s Tom Flynn. The lieutenant asked me to let you know we’re done on the island. You’re cleared to send your workmen back tomorrow and to have your clambake on Saturday.”
Good news at last. Did it mean the dogs hadn’t found anything, or did it mean they had?
I decided to head to Mark Cochran’s office. He’d be the best person to tell the crew to return to work. Besides, I wanted to talk to him anyway.
I drove to Mark’s office, which was about halfway up the two-lane highway that ran from busy Route 1 down to the harbor. During the design and contracting process, I’d loved going to meetings there. The building was gorgeous, crisply shingled on the outside, sleek and modern on the inside. It was intended to telegraph to potential clients, “I can build your multimillion-dollar waterfront home and it will be as wonderful as this office.” It worked.
Mark’s receptionist, who looked like he was a teenager, greeted me by name and offered coffee or water. Windsholme wasn’t my property and it wasn’t being renovated with my money, but Mom had included Livvie, Sonny, and me in every decision she’d made and everyone at Cochran Builders knew it. The receptionist told me Mark was finishing up a meeting and could see me shortly.
I said I’d help myself to water and went to get it. The office kitchen made me feel so good with its cherry cabinets and stone countertops. I sighed happily and looked at the samples stored in the room. Someday Windsholme would have three beautiful kitchens, an enormous one for catering functions and two small ones in Mom’s and my living spaces. I’d initially been opposed to spending the money to renovate the house. Now that it was underway I found myself daydreaming about life on the island a lot.
I heard voices and the sound of the outer door opening and closing and then Mark appeared. “Sorry you had to wait, Julia. Did we have an appointment?”
“No. Sorry. I came to tell you the police have given permission for the demo crew to resume work on the island.”
“That’s great news.” He beamed.
“Have you worked with the crew a lot?”
He nodded. “Yes. For several years now. They follow instructions well, are reliable, come in and get the job done for a steep but fair price.” He relaxed, leaning back against the big island in their display kitchen. “I wasn’t sure they’d take your job. Working on an island adds complexity to everything. I do all the hauling, dropping the dumpsters, arranging the pickups and disposal of the materials. But they still have to commute by boat and are stuck on the island all day.”
“I’m glad they said yes. It probably helped that you could offer them housing.”
“Housing is so difficult around here, especially during the season, I have to offer it to workers or I’d never get any to come here. Once the demo crew moves on I’ll start renovating that house. It will be a good winter project to keep my employees busy.”
And you’ll sell it for a bundle when you’re done. “The other day, in the sealed-off room, we spoke to two guys on the Russian crew.”
“Joe and Dmitri. I like to bring Dmitri into conversations with clients because English is his first language. He picks up a lot more of the nuance.”
“He’s di
sappeared.”
“So I’ve heard.” Mark didn’t seem concerned. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Dmitri only joined the crew a few months ago. Apparently he appeared out of nowhere and it seems he disappeared the same way.” Mark had been given the same story I had. “There’s another reason I’m not surprised he’s gone.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Dmitri didn’t know a thing about demo work. I watched him on his first day on another of my jobs. It was like he’d never held a sledgehammer before.”
* * *
I had a lot to think about as I drove back down the peninsula to town. What had I learned?
I’d learned that Terry and Jason had been friends before Terry went to prison. More than friends, they’d been partners in crime. Terry absolutely denied any relationship between the men in the present, aside from working together at the clambake and their mutual interest in Emmy. Jason’s prior life of crime lent an interesting wrinkle to all the money he’d lavished on himself, Pru, and the kids—the fancy boat, the SUV, the improvements in the house. The money could have come from lobstering, but after my conversation with Bard and his cronies I doubted it. So where had it come from? What was Jason up to?
I was bothered by Dmitri’s disappearance the day of the murder, though I was the only one who was. Mark Cochran and the other members of the demo crew didn’t think it the slightest bit unusual. The look that had passed between Jason and Dmitri on the island haunted me. Each man seemed to signal, “I know something about you.” Had Jason known something about Dmitri that got him killed?
Then there was Pru. I hadn’t talked to her, but I thought her sister’s argument about the golden goose was pretty compelling. Even if Jason had life insurance, could it possibly be worth more money than a live lobsterman buying gifts with his profits? And Jason was her kids’ father. Pru had been nervous and petty and jealous from the moment Jason’s flirtation with Emmy started, but her reputation around town was as a good mother and a hard worker. The latter was certainly true, and I had no reason to doubt the former. I did, however, have reason to doubt her excuse for not showing up for work on the day of Jason’s murder. Had someone warned her to stay away?
