by Barbara Ross
That left Dmitri. He was the suspect left standing. I had to find out where he’d gone and why. But how? He was the best hope to offer the cops a focus besides Terry.
The road went on and I was back in familiar territory. I started to feel badly as I drove up Route 1. Who was I to think my life was uniquely challenging? Those women at Pru’s house weren’t any different from me. Pru had endured a cheating husband. She worked two hard jobs to provide for her family. Livvie had had a miscarriage and had waited and hoped for five years after it for her second pregnancy. She was married to Sonny, and though I loved my brother-in-law, that was more than enough. Even Topher and Rosalind, whom I’d seen as the perfect couple, had their own issues. Topher had been shot, for goodness sake. He woke up screaming in the night.
My life wasn’t worse than anyone else’s. I was luckier than most. I physically shook myself. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Julia.”
When I was on the highway that led down our peninsula from Route 1, I called Chris and asked him to pick up Terry at the marina and bring him to our apartment.
* * *
Terry and Chris were in the apartment when I got home. I’d parked at Mom’s and walked to Gus’s. The day had turned chilly when the sun went down, chillier than I was dressed for. I hugged myself as I came up the stairs.
Both men stood up from the couch to greet me. They were subdued and it was obvious this was no time for chitchat.
“What’s going on?” Terry asked. “Why am I here?”
Now that I was home, I wasn’t in a hurry to have this conversation. I felt badly for Terry, I really did. In Chris’s telling Terry had difficult growing up years, never really accepted, picked on and worse by Chris’s dad, Terry’s stepfather. And, like Chris, there was a 50 percent chance he’d inherited his mother’s Huntington’s disease. The man had spent ten years in prison. He was broke and jobless.
“A friend of mine on the Busman’s PD told me the cops think Jason was with you that night at Hudson’s,” I said.
Terry sighed and looked down at his hands. “I never told them that.”
“Was Jason there?” I asked. “You can’t hurt him by telling me.”
“That’s true,” Terry said. “But I can hurt myself. The cops are working up to Jason’s murder being some old beef between him and me. I can feel it. When I was in for my second interview, they asked more about me and Jason than they did about what I did the morning he was killed. Which was weird because as you know, I have next to no alibi.”
“You’re worried if you tell me what happened that night at Hudson’s, the DA can call me to testify you had your reasons to hate Jason,” I said. “But isn’t that hearsay?”
Terry looked at the floorboards, worrying his hands. “I’m not a lawyer and I don’t play one on TV. There were guys on the inside who spent all day and night studying the law and reviewing their cases, even filing appeals. I never thought it was worth it. ‘Keep moving forward’ was my motto. Do the time. Never look back.”
“I’m asking you to look back now,” I said. “Was Jason at the store that night? Was he the getaway driver? I went to visit the man you shot today.”
“Christopher Gray,” Terry said. “Did he see Jason at Hudson’s that night?”
“No,” I answered.
“I knew he didn’t.” Terry was quiet for so long I assumed he wasn’t going to answer. I was forming a plea in my head, hoping to move him, when he started to talk. “You know, I never pled guilty to shooting that clerk. Never said I did it, in court or anywhere else. I never said it in a parole hearing. That’s why I did my full time.”
“We know,” Chris said.
“That’s because I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t even bring a gun.”
Chris and I both stared at him.
“How were you going to hold up Hudson’s without a gun?” Chris was irritated. Terry’s denials always irritated him. He thought his brother was evading responsibility.
“I wasn’t. It wasn’t an armed robbery. I was shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting!” Chris’s face betrayed his disbelief. “Why were you shoplifting?”
“Because I was an idiot. And I was high. But that’s no excuse. I was long past old enough to know better. Jason and I had done a bunch of stupid stuff. Breaking in to summer homes mostly. No one was ever there. It was dumb, but there was no chance of hurting anybody.”
“So if you didn’t bring a gun—”
“I went into Hudson’s to steal a six-pack. It was stupid. I could have paid for it. I had a job in the kitchen at Schooner Bill’s. It didn’t pay much but I didn’t need much. It was just me.
“Jason was in the car with the motor running. We were going to Fisherman’s Park to drink. It was dark. After ten. My plan was simple. I grabbed a six-pack and ran. Except this kid in the store, he thought he was a hero. He spotted me and he ran, too. Tackled me by the cash register at the front of the store on my way out. I don’t know, but I figure Jason saw it through the window. Saw him jump and me go down and thought I was in real trouble. I wasn’t. The kid had a hold of me, but had no way to call the cops unless he let me go. We were wriggling around on the floor when I heard the gun go off and then the kid screaming bloody murder. I stood up and saw Jason peel out of the parking lot.
“I made sure the kid wasn’t so badly hurt. By that time I could hear the sirens. A gunshot attracts a lot of attention that time of night. Like ten neighbors of the store had called the cops. I put my hands up when Pete Howland walked into the store. He was a rookie and my main concern was he didn’t shoot me.”
“Jason shot the clerk.”
“Yup. Jason shot him. I recognized the gun as soon as Howland found it. We’d picked it up in one of the house breaks.”
“But the clerk—”
“Testified he saw only me.”
“But it must have been obvious he wasn’t shot at such close range.”
“Do you think the DA was going to use the state’s money to pay for ballistics tests and medical testimony in an armed robbery where there’s an eyewitness and the perpetrator is standing there with his hands up when the cops walk in? I certainly didn’t have money to pay for private tests or experts. My public defender brought me deal after deal, but they all involved me admitting I was guilty, so I said no thanks.”
“Why didn’t you give Jason up?” Chris asked.
“Because if we were in it together, they’d say I was guilty anyway. Conspiracy to commit a felony. Same sentence as if I shot him. Even I know that. It wouldn’t help me, so why drag Jason down? He had a wife and two little kids at home.”
“After that, what happened to you and Jason?” I asked him.
“I didn’t expect him to attend my trial. Seeing his face might have jogged the kid’s memory. Or even to visit me in the county jail. But I thought maybe once I was settled up in Warren, once the trial was over and it was clear Jason wasn’t involved, I thought maybe he would visit me then.”
“Were you angry that he didn’t?”
Terry’s head shot up, but he still didn’t look at us. “Are you trying to help me, Julia, or are you trying to get me convicted again?”
“I’m trying to understand your relationship with Jason,” I told him. “And I’m not the only one.”
“Like I told you, I didn’t look back then, and I don’t like looking back now. I wouldn’t have killed Jason for something that happened in the past.”
“Would you have killed him for something that happened in the present?” I asked.
“You mean Emmy. I told you, no. I never in my life ever wanted to kill anyone, and that includes when I was in the army and it was my job.”
Terry moved toward the stairs. “Look, both of you, I appreciate what you’ve tried to do for me. I really do. But let’s face facts. I’m the only person close to Jason’s murder who’s been convicted of shooting someone. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.”
“It’s not as grim as you think,” I s
aid. “There’s still the missing demolition guy. If Binder and Flynn thought they had a case against you, you’d have been arrested by now.”
Terry fixed his eyes on mine. “Promise me one thing, Julia. When it’s time to run, you’ll tell me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I slept poorly, Terry’s request sounding in my ears. Would I tell him when it was time to run? No, I would not. If Binder and Flynn had enough to arrest him, I’d let justice take its course.
Would I tell Chris, which might be tantamount to telling Terry? That was a harder one. Chris’s and my relationship had been one of peeling away secrets, getting to greater levels of intimacy. We were in a good place now, and if I found out Terry was about to be arrested I wouldn’t keep it from Chris. He had hated Terry’s crime—or what he’d believed his crime to be. I could trust Chris to do the right thing, whatever it was.
It took a long time to work it all out, and I woke up feeling tired and down.
In the morning I had an appointment to meet Floradale Thayer at Mom’s garage so she could decide if there were any of Lilly Smythe’s belongings she wanted to take for the Busman’s Harbor Historical Society. Tallulah had volunteered to help, so I went into Mom’s house to get her.
“How did you do on the Web?” I asked her.
“You were right,” Tallulah answered. “I couldn’t find a Lilly Smythe anywhere in Maine or Massachusetts after 1898. I can’t bear the idea that she killed herself.”
“You wouldn’t find her by that name if she married,” I pointed out. “You don’t know what happened.”
Tallulah shivered, the only indication I’d ever seen that she was cold, though I doubted that was why she did. “But the sealed room. I think it means something terrible happened. It must have.”
We went out to the unused third bay in Mom’s garage where the belongings moved from Lilly’s room were stored. I’d told family members to take something as a remembrance and most of them had. After all these decades we felt someone should honor the poor young woman who had been so terrified and alone. I had selected her wire-framed spectacles. They were personal and a reminder of her vulnerability.
Tallulah helped me open the double doors to that part of the garage. The sun shone onto the pile of objects. It didn’t look like much, the plain bureau, writing desk, nightstand, disassembled bed frame, rolled up mattress, and three plastic crates. Back in Lilly’s room in their original places, the pieces looked like they belonged in a museum. Piled like any other family’s cheap hand-me-downs, the stuff seemed destined for a booth at the Busman’s Harbor Stop ’n’ Swap. I doubted the historical society would have an interest.
“We should have brought Mrs. Thayer out to the island,” I muttered. “I would have if there hadn’t been a murder.”
“What?” Tallulah asked.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.”
A metallic cough came from the driveway and Floradale Thayer’s old blue van sputtered into view. The springs groaned as Floradale alighted. I glanced at Tallulah, hoping she wouldn’t stare, but of course she did.
Floradale Thayer was enormous, well over six and a half feet tall with the shoulders of a linebacker. She wore a khaki skirt and olive green sweater that stretched across her broad chest. In her midsixties, she walked in a ramrod-straight posture that might have come from the military, but instead came from Miss Lyon’s Ballroom Dancing School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen.
We greeted each other and I introduced Tallulah as my cousin.
“Cousin you say?” Mrs. Thayer knew the genealogy of every family in town, with special emphasis on the prominent summer families like the Morrows. “You’re one of the Boston family,” she said to Tallulah, who nodded. The story of how I’d discovered two branches of my mother’s family tree she never knew existed was well known around town and especially by Mrs. Thayer, who had helped me with my early research.
“What have you got here?” She looked into the garage.
“We found this at Windsholme,” I answered.
“In a sealed-off room,” she said. We had already covered this ground on the phone. “Most interesting.”
She dismissed the desk, bureau, nightstand, and iron bedstead out of hand. “There’s one of these in half the cottages on the peninsula.” Only a slight exaggeration. “But let’s see some of the personal effects.”
I opened the first of the plastic bins, which contained most of Lilly’s clothes. Mrs. Thayer pulled them out one at a time, unfolding them. “Marvelous,” she said, holding the bathing costume in front of her. She handed it off to Tallulah, who played along, holding out her arms to receive them like a salesperson in a high-end boutique. By then Mrs. Thayer was on to Lilly’s skirt and blouse. “Fantastic,” she said. “Likely a governess. Late eighteen-nineties.” She knew her stuff. “I’ll take all the clothes.”
When she pulled out a nightgown a shiver ran down my spine. It had a whole new meaning now that I knew about the awful entry in Lilly’s journal.
“Have you ever heard of a governess at Windsholme in 1898 called Lilly Smythe?” I asked Floradale. If word of Lilly’s suicide had gotten around town it wasn’t out of the question Mrs. Thayer would have known about it.
“Can’t say as I have,” she replied.
“It’s spelled S-M-Y-T-H-E,” Tallulah said helpfully.
“Is she local?” Mrs. Thayer was barely paying attention. She was bent over the second container, the one filled with the books and personal items.
“We think she came from Boston,” I said. At least that was where she’d met the Morrow yacht.
“No, sorry.” Mrs. Thayer shook her head. “What happened to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Tallulah answered. Then she and I, alternating and filling in details, told the story we had found in the journal.
Mrs. Thayer furrowed her brow. Mysteries from the past were her bread and butter. Every day during every season people turned up at the historical society having traced their origins to a grave in the Busman’s Harbor cemetery where the trail ran cold. She helped everyone she could.
“I can tell you what happened to Frederick Morrow,” she said at last. “He drowned. During a boat race at the yacht club. He was drunk and fell out. Even though there were many witnesses, he was out of sight by the time the sailboat came about and returned to the spot. His body washed up in the marina ten days later.”
“Seems like rough justice,” Tallulah muttered, an icy cold assessment given her sunny disposition, though accurate, I thought.
“Did this governess mention any surnames of the other servants that summer?” Mrs. Thayer asked. “Because if they were local, there may still be family around. They may have heard stories. It’s a long shot, but what have you got to lose?”
I thought back through the stories, but Tallulah, who’d read each entry at least twice, beat me to the punch. “The cook was Mrs. Stout and the housekeeper Mrs. Franklin.”
Mrs. Thayer shook her head. “Not familiar.”
“Mrs. Stout worked for William Morrow in New York City. My grandmother remembers her. Mrs. Franklin wasn’t a good housekeeper according to the journal. I doubt she lasted long.” Tallulah paused, scrunching up her face. “There were maids who came from Busman’s Harbor, but I don’t think even their first names are mentioned in the journal.”
“Well, it was worth a thought,” Mrs. Thayer said.
“Wait!” Tallulah’s eyes lit up. “There was also the captain of the Morrow yacht. He was a former naval officer. His name was Beal, I think. Captain Beal.”
“Well, that’s different,” Mrs. Thayer replied. “There’s Beals all over the place around here. If I were you, I would start my inquiries with Bill Beal. He’s the family history buff. Stops in the society all the time. I’ll call you with his contact information when I get back to the office.”
“Thank you!” Tallulah was excited. I worried she had her hopes too high. A family legend about the suicide of a governess who
’d spent less than three months on an island in Maine a hundred and twenty years ago? It seemed far-fetched there would be family stories anyone would remember. But any clue was better than none. That was certainly the way Tallulah viewed it.
Mrs. Thayer repacked the books. Tallulah refolded the clothes and prepared to return them to the other container. “Wait, there’s one more thing in the bottom of this bin you haven’t seen.” Tallulah lifted a pair of bloomers out of the container. They were still folded with the same sharp creases they’d had in the drawer. Since they were the third identical pair, we’d never unfolded them. As they unfurled something fell out, splat onto the driveway.
Tallulah and I spotted it at the same moment. “Another volume of the journal!” She pounced, picking it up. The notebook was identical to the one we’d read from every evening the past week.
Floradale Thayer eyed the cover. “Would you want to donate that to the historical society? We’d be happy to take it, along with the other. They would be a valuable reference about life in a Maine summer residence.”
“Not now.” Tallulah clutched the journal close.
“Maybe someday,” I added.
* * *
Tallulah and I helped Floradale load the three plastic bins into her wheezy old van. Then we went into Mom’s kitchen to clean up and get something to drink. Marguerite and Mom were at the kitchen table with cups of coffee in front of them.
“We found another volume of Lilly’s journal, Granny!” Tallulah practically danced. Marguerite put out her hand. Tallulah gave her the notebook and then went to the kitchen sink to wash off the dust. I filled Mom in on what Floradale had taken from the garage while Marguerite turned the pages of the new volume.
“We’ll donate the bed and the other furniture,” Mom said, “if no one in the family can use them.”
“And take the mattress to the dump,” I added.
“This book is blank.” Marguerite sounded bitterly disappointed. “There’s nothing in it. This must have been an extra notebook Lilly brought with her for the summer but never used.”
