by Barbara Ross
And finally there was Terry. Terry had lied about his earlier relationship with Jason. What else was he lying about? He’d been off somewhere on the Dark Lady the morning of the murder. And while I was convinced he hadn’t showed up for work because he believed he was fired, it sure didn’t look good.
I’d learned a lot, but I hadn’t gotten anywhere. I didn’t have anything I could take to the police, who were undoubtedly ahead of me in many areas, like looking into Jason’s finances.
The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows when I left my car in Mom’s garage and hiked the short distance over the harbor hill to my apartment. Gus would be gone, the building empty. It was a peaceful time of day I enjoyed, especially in the quiet period when the days the clambake ran were dwindling and our winter restaurant, Gus’s Too, hadn’t started up yet.
When I reached the familiar building, perched on pilings on a boulder over the harbor, I walked down the steep driveway to the little parking lot and toward the kitchen door, the one I had a key to, the one we used every day.
I was at the door, turning the key in the lock, when I heard a voice. “Excuse me, missus.”
I jumped, turning toward the source of the sound. Alex, the young man on the demo crew, came toward me. I took a breath, my heart rate slowing. He didn’t look aggressive. In fact, he looked the opposite, like he was sorry for bothering me.
“Could we talk for a little time?” he asked.
“Of course. What’s the matter? Has Dmitri turned up?”
Alex shook his head. “No. This is why I’m talking here to you now. He has not returned and I am scared for him.”
That was a change. I turned the key in the lock. “Come in.”
He followed me into the restaurant, looking all around, at the kitchen, the booths, even the ceiling. “I have never been here before.”
I wasn’t surprised. Gus’s was strictly for locals. There were no signs outside, and if he didn’t know you, or you didn’t arrive with someone he knew, you would be informed the place was full, no matter how much your eyes told you it was not. It was arbitrary and discriminatory, not to mention a terrible business practice, but it was also a refuge for the locals during the tourist season where they could drop their fake smiles and Old Salt facades.
“How did you know I lived here?” I said to him.
He flushed. “I asked the first person I met in the street.”
Ah, the joy of small towns, particularly as the season wound down. People who would never enter their own addresses on a Web site were perfectly happy to point a stranger in the direction of someone’s home in the real world. It came, I knew, from being stopped a half dozen times on a short walk during the summer by people asking directions. Despite all the Maine jokes about “You can’t get theah from heah,” folks were helpful 99 percent of the time. That tourist was probably headed to a cottage where he paid rent, or to a store to buy something, or to a restaurant to eat, all of them owned by locals.
“Can I get you something to drink, coffee, tea, water?” I asked.
Alex swallowed hard, the big Adam’s apple bobbing. “No. I will not be staying long. Joe will wonder where I have gone.”
Why did Joe care where Alex was during his time off? Didn’t everyone need to get away from time to time? The forced company felt oppressive.
“I want to tell you I am concerned about Dmitri.” Alex’s face was solemn and determined, his mouth set.
I sat down on a stool at the counter. He did the same, leaving one stool between us. “You said you weren’t surprised Dmitri left.”
“That is what our boss told me to say. I have said it to you, to Mr. Cochran, and even to the police. But telling the truth, I am very worried about Dmitri.” I didn’t respond and he continued. “Joe is a good boss because we always have work and we are paid on time and fairly. But, in return, he doesn’t like anyone to question what he does.” He cleared his throat and went on. “Plus, because we are working with him and he is in charge of us, Joe likes to know where we are and what we are doing. Right now, he thinks I am at the store buying milk. He would not like me talking to you, especially about this. But Dmitri never told Joe where he was going. He disappeared all the time, most often for a few hours but sometimes for a day or more. Caused much aggravation. I think Joe would have fired Dmitri, except he needed him to translate. My English is not so good yet.”
“Your English is great. How did the police respond when you told them you weren’t surprised Dmitri had disappeared?”
Alex leaned on the counter, skinny forearms bent toward his face. “They did not react to anything I told them. There were two policemen, one bald and one who looked like a soldier. They sat there like this the whole time.” Alex pulled his mouth into a straight line and stared at me, unblinking, with a gaze that conveyed deep skepticism.
I laughed in spite of the seriousness of the subject and the risk he was taking by talking to me. “That’s Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn. Don’t let them put you off. They’re like that with everyone.”
He didn’t believe me. “You too?”
“Well, maybe not me because they know me, but yes, in the beginning they were as you say, and they intimidated me. But you can’t let them. If you’re worried about Dmitri you have to tell them.”
“No!” Alex was plainly horrified. “I cannot. I could lose my job, and if I lose my job I lose my work permit, and if I lose my work permit—” He stopped abruptly. The outcome was unthinkable. He took a deep breath. “I can tell you have some interest in this murder, beyond that it happened on your property. You didn’t come to talk to us yesterday to see how we are feeling. I will talk to you, and I will tell you anything I hear, but I will not talk to the police.”
“Alex, if I tell the police what you’ve told me, or anything you tell me in the future, they are going to want to talk to you. It’s unavoidable.”
He laid his hands, open, palms up on the counter. “Then you will have to be clever,” he said. “If I find out anything the police need to know, you will have to be very, very clever how you tell them.”
Chapter Seventeen
Chris came home and showered before we headed to Mom’s for dinner. “How did the rest of your day go?” he asked.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting, like helpful?”
I let out a long breath. “No. Interesting only like interesting.” I walked him through my day.
When I got to my conversation with Alex, he stopped me. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“It’s not different than any of the other nosing around. Nosing around you asked me to do, for the record.”
Chris glanced back over his shoulder. “For my permanent record?”
I laughed and the mood in the room lightened. “For the permanent record of our relationship, scattered with checkmarks for every time I was right.”
He grabbed his jacket. “I don’t even want to see it.”
“I get double checkmarks whenever I’m right and I don’t say, ‘I told you so.’”
He groaned. “Now I know I don’t. Never, ever.”
He swept me into his arms for a kiss. “Thank you for helping Terry.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Thank you for trying.”
Mom was cooking, ordinarily the three scariest words in the English language. My mother had been brought up by a succession of housekeepers who had left her with a scattershot set of cooking skills across several ethnic cuisines. Fortunately, the German housekeeper had taught her to make a delicious pot roast, which had entered Mom’s limited rotation of company meals.
She had prepared the meat the day before because of her shift at Linens and Pantries. “Always better the second day,” she said as she whipped potatoes. Five of the best words in the English language.
Livvie’s family and the Snugg sisters arrived and we all dug into the pot roast, gravy, potatoes, and coleslaw. The foods beautifully complemented one another with their swee
t and sour tastes. You could cut the meat with your fork.
Jason’s murder did come up during the meal, but Mom quickly changed the subject. At last the plates were cleared and we got down to the business of why we were really there.
Tallulah brought the journal. Marguerite cleared her throat and read.
“July 17, 1898
“A most unexpected and terrible thing has happened. The evening of the ball was all I hoped for. The dinner was sumptuous, a fish and a meat course, all followed by the delicious baked Alaska dessert. The main parlor and great hall had been cleared for dancing and there was an orchestra.
“I would have been happy to stay in the background and watch, though I regretted leaving my spectacles off as everyone on the other side of the room was a colorful blur. My wish to be a spectator was not granted. I was asked to dance time and again. I was barely able to catch my breath and have some punch. Most of the other ladies were drinking champagne, the men something stronger. But my family has always been temperance and I was already so far from my usual daily activities, I declined.
“Mr. Frederick danced with me three times in the course of the evening. Each time he was more inebriated—and bolder, holding me too close and whispering indecent ideas into my ear. We whirled by Captain Beal standing to the side, looking resplendent in a uniform Mr. Morrow has made for his yachting crew. I tried to signal I needed rescue, but he seemed not to see.
“After our third dance, Mr. Frederick left me with some other ladies and I decided it was time to withdraw. I worried he would approach me again and I didn’t want the evening spoilt. I didn’t say good night, but quietly crept up the stairs. I could thank the Morrows the next day. I went through the nursery where William and Charles were already asleep, and closed my door. I dressed for bed and settled in to read. I could hear the music from downstairs, but faintly. It was pleasant and I was happy.
“Slowly, the evening came to an end. The music stopped. Conversations from the great lawn floated through my high window as the guests who were returning to their yachts said their good-byes. Footsteps came up the stairs to the bedrooms. I blew out my lamp and went to sleep.
“Then, in the night, I was awakened by the tumble of a lock, the turn of a latch.”
Marguerite stopped reading, though she didn’t close the book. She caught Sonny’s eye, then looked meaningfully at Page.
“Page, go watch TV,” Sonny said.
“But it’s a school night.” Page was a greater stickler for the rules than her parents.
“Go,” Sonny commanded. “You heard the part about the ball. That’s what you were here for.”
“Aw, man.”
My mother’s only television was in the sitting room off her bedroom, a converted sleeping porch. We waited until we heard Page’s footsteps tread up the stairs, and then Sonny signaled Marguerite to resume.
“Then, in the night, I was awakened by the tumble of a lock, the turn of a latch. A door burst open. It was not one of the young men from the nursery looking for me, but the other door to my room. Mr. Frederick charged in, staggering and calling my name. ‘Lilly, Lilly, darling, I need you!’
“Before I could move he came to my bed. He tore the bedclothes from my clutched hands. He lifted my nightgown and touched me roughly. I had no doubt what he intended. I screamed as loud as I could. He had his breeches lowered and he . . . I cannot even write it here. I kept up screaming though he tried to cover my mouth with his hand. I will never forget the feel of his hot, drunken breath on my face.
“The door from the nursery banged open and young Charles stood frozen in the darkness, but only for seconds. He set upon his uncle, jumping on his back, pummeling him and shouting.
“It seemed to go on forever, though surely it was but a minute. The lamps were lit in the nursery and the whole family was there and a few of the guests. Frederick lurched away. My nightgown was by this point on the floor. I covered myself as best I could.
“‘Frederick, go to your room,’ Mrs. Morrow senior commanded. ‘You are drunk. The rest of you disperse.’
“Charles was crying and plainly terrified. His mother led him away. The doorway was empty except for the senior Mrs. Morrow. ‘I’ll leave you to your shame,’ she said. ‘Next time you lead a wealthy man on, do not change your mind once you have what it is you sought.’
“She left, closing the door, leaving me sobbing in the bed.”
Marguerite looked up. “That’s the end of the entry.”
“You can’t leave us here,” Mom said. There were nods around the table.
“You can’t,” Vee agreed.
Marguerite turned the remaining pages. “There are only a few left.”
“Go on,” Mom said. “Finish it.”
Marguerite read.
“August 8, 1898
“I have not written in a long time. I thought I would be asked to leave, but the household goes on as if nothing has happened, except the porter has nailed the door between my room and Mr. Frederick’s shut.
“I cannot forget as they all do so easily. I cannot forget and neither can young Charles, who is always solicitous of me. The rest of the time he is quiet and even more withdrawn than when we arrived. The summer in which I thought he would bloom has become a nightmare for him as it has for me.
“I maintain my composure during lessons with William and Charles. It is my happiest time of the day, though we always do our work in the nursery now, not around the island. The rest of the time I am sad and far away, like I am no longer in my own body. I am given to bouts of crying, which come unbidden and uncontrollable. I never know when the tears will come and it keeps me away from the family. When they think of me, which I believe is rarely, they have adopted Mrs. Morrow senior’s fiction that I attempted to seduce Mr. Frederick. I have taken to eating all my meals with the servants. When I see Mr. Frederick I am sick to my stomach and at heart. After the ball, he finally went back to Boston with Mr. Morrow to their offices. He was gone for some days and I’d begun to feel better, but now he is back and the feeling of utter helplessness has returned. Every night when I go to bed I feel his hands upon me once more.
“Mrs. Stout found me in the rose garden today, bawling like a washerwoman. She put her arms around me and said, ‘You poor girl.’ Her sympathy only made me cry harder. ‘You should go home, girl,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for you here but pain. There is no shame in it.’
“But I can’t bear the thought. What will I tell my family? How will I explain I have lost my position? Will I ever work again? I doubt the Morrows will give me a good reference. They will not want the tale spread, though I will never tell a soul.
“Can I ever marry now? It was by no means a certainty, but I always hoped. Those hopes have gone.
“In the late afternoon, when the family gathers on the porch and I know Mr. Frederick is with them, I walk over the top of the island on the path to the beach. There is a boulder there that hangs out over the water. I stand there and stare into the blue, blue of the channel. It isn’t wide. In my swimming costume I could probably make it as far as the other side. Westclaw Point, it’s called. But if I were to leap, in my shirt and boots and petticoats, I am certain I would die. I think about it all the time. They say it’s not a bad way to—”
Marguerite closed the journal with a sharp thwack.
“That’s it?” Livvie was appalled.
“That’s all there is,” Marguerite confirmed. “It goes to the last line on the last page of the notebook.”
“Do you think she went through with it?” Tallulah asked. “Drowned herself. Is that why they sealed up her room?”
“I expect they felt guilty,” Mom said. “They pretended it was her fault, but they knew what had really happened. Perhaps they couldn’t face the room. They needed it to disappear.”
“They would have told her family some story about a swimming mishap,” Fee said.
“Now we’re wildly speculating,” Livvie objected. “We don’t know any such thing.
”
“You’re right,” Tallulah said. “We don’t know. Maybe she was fine. Maybe she worked out the summer and went home.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The candles had burned down. I got up and flicked on the lights. Marguerite sat, a deep sadness in her hooded brown eyes. It had been like fiction for us, a tale of distant people. But her father, Lemuel, had, to all indications, participated in the charade that left a vulnerable young woman scarred and alone. Though Marguerite had no memory of Lemuel, who had died when she was a year old, it must have affected her. And she had known her half brothers, William and Charles.
“I want to know what happened,” Tallulah said. “I can’t stand this.”
“Me too,” I agreed. “But how?”
“We start on the Internet,” Tallulah said.
“You won’t have much luck with Smythe,” I said, “even spelled that way. But it’s the right place to begin.”
Chapter Eighteen
I woke up in the morning determined to go back to Pru’s. If Jason had unexplained sources of money it was likely to be at the root of his murder. Far more likely than Terry killing him over a petty jealousy about Emmy or a beef about a long-abandoned friendship. If anyone knew where Jason’s money came from it was Pru.
I was relieved to see no cars parked on the street as I approached Pru’s house on foot. The hulking, black SUV was in place at the end of the driveway, which meant she was probably home. I wondered if the Caraway kids would have gone back to school. The medical examiner hadn’t released Jason’s body. No funeral had been announced. The kids would have wanted to be out of the house and with their friends. Pru was a good mother and would have wanted a return to some kind of routine.
