Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
STORM ISLAND
A KATE POMEROY MYSTERY
“This fictional work is truly a page turner and keeps the reader engaged from the first page to the last. The plot is skillfully crafted, as the author blends present day events with those from the past…There are many twists and turns throughout this exciting story. Author Linda Watkins has written a riveting mystery suspense story in Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery.”
~ Deborah Lloyd for Readers Favorite, 5-Star Review
“An intense and intriguing puzzle, Storm Island by Linda Watkins is a thrilling and suspenseful mystery novel that you can't put down once you pick it up. Complete with a complex plot, a fascinating story line, and wicked antagonists, it is a stunning story that keeps the reader enthralled until the very end...With all the psychological twists and turns, this captivating novel reminds me of a cross between a Hitchcock film and a Phyllis Whitney novel. It is an exciting tale of deceit and betrayal, with just a small hint of the paranormal, and will delight those who enjoy a good psychological thriller.”
~ Susan Sewell for Readers Favorite, 5-Star Review
“Storm Island is the first book in a Kate Pomeroy series of mysteries, and opens with flashing lights and a dead body…Watkins' ability to draw readers into a gripping mystery that involves psychological inspection, suspense, and drama rests firmly on strong characterization and Kate's first-person observations...an absorbing mix of cozy mystery with a dash of romance and psychological inspection creating just the right blend of suspense.”
~Diane Donovan, Midwest Book Review
"Storm Island is a real treat of a novel, filled with chills, historical mysteries and a compelling heroine. I seriously can't remember enjoying a Gothic novel as much as I did this book, and I have always enjoyed the genre. Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery is most highly recommended."
~Jack Magnus for Readers Favorite, 5-Star Review
Storm Island
A Kate Pomeroy Mystery
Linda Watkins
STORM ISLAND, A KATE POMEROY MYSTERY, Copyright © by Linda Watkins
All rights reserved. This book was published by Linda Watkins under Argon Press. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Editing by Kristine Circelli, Red Road Editing
Cover design by Jessica Ozment and Linda Watkins
Interior Formatting by Linda Watkins
Published in the United States of America by Argon Press
Library of Congress Control Number 2018911010
ISBN 978-1-944815-07-3 EB
ISBN 978-1-944815-08-0 PB
Created with Vellum
Contents
Acknowledgments
Untitled
1. Late July, 2017
Two Months Earlier - Memorial Hospital, Los Angeles, California
2. The Surgical Suite
3. The Looney Bin
4. The Big Apple
5. Storm Island
6. A Startling Discovery
7. Jeremy
8. Horace Hatchett
9. Jeremy (Again)
10. The Little Stone Silo
11. Final Preparations At Stormview
12. The Arrival
13. Lunch On Friday
14. Dreams
15. Dinner At Stormview
16. Confrontations And Accusations
17. Jeremy
18. On Hettie’s Couch
19. Day Trip To The Mainland
20. The Stone Silo
21. The “Wet Your Whistle”
22. The Second Couplet
23. Jeremy
24. Sloane Bradshaw
25. The Silo
26. Dinner At Stormview With The Four Families
27. The Imaginary Silo
28. A Conversation With Sloane
29. Hettie Offers Some Advice
30. Lunch At Alioto’s
31. The Tunnels
32. The Panic Room
33. Mom’s Journal
34. Terror In The Tunnels
35. A Taste Of Blood
36. Late July, 2017
37. Arrested
38. Attorney/Client Meeting
39. Arraignment
40. A Simple Plan
41. Back To The Tunnels
42. Inside Stormview
43. Raoul
44. Hettie
45. Aftermath
46. The Investigation
47. Putting The Pieces Back Together
48. Starting Over
49. Special Note From The Author
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my editor, Kristina Circelli, for her most helpful insights into my work. I’d also like to thank my trainer, Hayley Healy, for listening over and over again to the plot of this story as she put me through my paces. And, as always, thanks to my faithful readers, Marge LeBel and J. Scott Payne. Thank you both for reading my work and providing much-needed criticism.
“Gossip says she hanged herself from the turret on the tower, but when you have a house like Hill House with a tower and a turret, gossip would hardly allow you to hang yourself anywhere else.”
~Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
Late July, 2017
Storm Island, Maine
THE FLASHING BLUE light on the top of the police cruiser cast eerie shadows on the stone walls of the old manor house. I watched as they danced about, blending occasionally with the red and white ones from the ambulance. The result was a tableau reminiscent of the fourth of July that had recently come and gone. It was both beautiful and ironic. What happened tonight in that house could by no means ever be described as a “celebration.”
A shiver ran down my spine and I wrapped my arms around myself to ward off the chill. I was standing in the shadows, in a copse of trees, watching. The rain that had started as a drizzle was rapidly becoming a downpour, and I pulled up the hood of my windbreaker as the heavy drops began to mingle with my tears. The old wooden door of Stormview Manor abruptly creaked open and I waited, knowing in my heart who and what would be coming out.
EMTs pushing a gurney swiftly exited the manse, the hoods of their slickers obscuring their faces as they tried to stay dry.
The gurney they propelled wasn’t empty. A long, dark-blue bag made of thick plastic sat on top and I suppressed a scream as I watched it bounce down the steps on its way to the ambulance. The tears that stained my cheeks intensified. I knew who was in that bag and I knew I would never see him again. It broke my heart.
As the first responders loaded the gurney into the rear of the ambulance, my attention was diverted back to the old manor house as two men came through the wooden door and hurried down the steps. One was in uniform and I recognized him. It was Officer Stubble, Storm Island’s resident policeman. The other, wearing a beige overcoat, collar turned up to avoid the chill of the stormy night, was, I believed, a detective … a stranger from the mainland who would be charged with investigating this recent death.
I watched the policemen as they conferred, and then the door opened again and stepping onto the porch were two other figures whom I knew well … my Aunt Hephzibah and her husband, Raoul. They stood on the top step, under an overhang, seeking shelter from the rain. Raoul had his arm around Hettie, holding her protectively, as she leaned her head into his chest.
The man in the over
coat spoke briefly with them and then another officer in uniform emerged from the manse. He was carrying several plastic containers … bags that I assumed held the murder weapon and other vital evidence.
I knew now that, as much as I wanted to stay, it was time to take my leave. Slowly, being careful not to be noticed, I turned and then walked swiftly down the path that led to the carriage house, the place I had called home that summer.
Time was now of the essence. They would be coming for me soon. And, when they came, I needed to be ready.
Two Months Earlier - Memorial Hospital, Los Angeles, California
“ARE YOU SURE you’re old enough to cut me open?”
I looked up from my tablet and smiled. “Yes, Mr. Petersen, I’m old enough. As I’ve told you before, I’m a second-year resident in Surgery. And, you know, Dr. Redbone will be in the operating room, too. I’ll just be assisting.”
Mr. Petersen was about to say more, but Steve, the head nurse on the unit who was a good friend of mine, decided to put in his two cents.
“Don’t you worry, Henry,” he said with a grin. “Dr. Pomeroy has some of the best hands in the business. And, like she said, Redbone will be there, too. Together, you’ve probably got two of the best surgeons on the west coast taking care of you.”
Petersen took a deep breath, then smiled. “Well, if you say so, Steve.”
I grinned at Steve, then turned back to my patient. “Okay, now you just rest … do some reading or watch TV. Your surgery’s scheduled for four o’clock and I’ll see you then. If anything comes up in the meantime, you buzz for Steve or one of the other nurses. Okay?”
Petersen nodded.
Satisfied, I patted him on the knee, turned, and, giving Steve a quick wink, left the room. Once out in the corridor, I quickly made some final notes on my tablet and walked down the hall toward the E.R.
Mr. Petersen was a sixty-six-year-old man admitted to Memorial for gall bladder surgery. The procedure was routine and I would be assisting Dr. Alistair Redbone in the O.R. Dr. Redbone, one of our more prominent surgeons, had a reputation of being extremely hard on residents and I knew I would be no exception.
I’d met him when I was a medical student, clerking on his service. Like most of my fellow female classmates, I was impressed with his George Clooney good looks, right down the dash of gray at the temples. He could be charming when he wanted something and ruthless when he felt it necessary. He flirted with me occasionally during the six weeks I clerked for him and I suppose I was more than just a little flattered. But he was married and that meant he was definitely off-limits.
We met again when I started my surgical residency here. By this time, he was divorced. Hospital gossip blamed the failure of his marriage on numerous infidelities, but I was so in awe of him, I didn’t give any weight to this. He was well-respected by my father, who was Chief of Staff at Memorial and, keeping it all in the family, also had than a passing acquaintance with my Aunt Hettie, a psychiatrist who practiced on the east coast.
On his service during my first year, Dr. Redbone again flirted with me, laying on the charm, and by the time I entered my second year, we were, to say the least, involved.
He was a skilled lover who courted danger and would often pull me into a hospital linen closet or empty patient room for a quick, but satisfying, liaison. He could be cruel, but was always exciting and, against my better judgement, I found myself totally enthralled.
This was manageable when I was working on other surgical specialties, but now that I was on his service, things became awkward. Perversely, because of our intimate relationship, he seemed to single me out for verbal punishment and criticism. I had already felt the lash of his tongue on numerous occasions during rounds and on the wards. But today would be the first time I would act as first assistant in the O.R. and I was not looking forward to it.
Turning my mind to Mr. Petersen’s upcoming surgery, I approached one of my fellow second-year residents, Dr. Seth Rampling, who was standing at the E.R. intake desk talking with one of the clerks.
“Hey, Seth,” I called. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” he said, grinning. “What’s up?”
“Can you cover for me for about forty-five? I need to grab a cat-nap.”
“Worried about your surgery?”
I laughed. “Yeah. I had a late night down here last night and I’m afraid I only got a couple hours’ sleep. Redbone’s going to be gunning for me today and I need to look sharp.”
Seth grinned knowingly and was about to say something, but thought better of it. Hospitals are like small towns … everybody knows everyone else’s business … and my affair with Alistair was no exception.
“Sure,” Seth finally said. “Forty-five. I’ve got you.”
“Thanks. I owe you one. If you need me, page me. I’ll be in the west wing laundry supply room.”
Seth nodded. “Cool.”
Giving him one last smile, I headed for the elevators. The laundry supply room was on the second floor. The on-call rooms most residents used for sleeping were at the opposite end of the building. I preferred the laundry room because it was more peaceful. There were no residents whispering or making out. Just blessed quiet. Someone before my time had also discovered this nirvana and placed a cot against the back wall, which was still there today. That and the scent of freshly laundered scrubs and lab coats made for the perfect environment to grab a few zzz’s.
The laundry room was empty when I got there and I made straight for the cot. Stretching out, I set my phone to chime in forty minutes, closed my eyes, and drifted off to dreamland.
Now, I’m sure there are some skeptics out there who question how I could fall asleep so fast, but I assure you it’s possible. After almost two years of residency, I could fall asleep in a heartbeat and wake up in the same amount of time, appearing bright-eyed and refreshed. It was the same with all my fellow residents. Such is the nature of surgical training in a large, metropolitan, teaching hospital.
So, as I said, I fell asleep almost instantly. I think I was about a half-hour into my nap when something started tickling me into consciousness.
Voices.
I rolled over, burying my face in my arms in an attempt to blot them out, but still they slipped into my ear canals, and, like tiny spiders, made their way into my brain.
“But I’m bearing all the risk. Another 50K’s not too much to ask.”
“You’re already being paid enough.”
“But what if you’re wrong? What if some residue shows up in blood tests? What then? I’m the one on the hook, not you or your partners. No, I’m not continuing unless I get more.”
Fully awake now, the conversation had me intrigued, and I glanced over in its direction.
Two men were standing just inside the door to the laundry room. One of them I recognized as Dr. James Conway, Assistant Chief of Psychiatry at Memorial. The other man was a stranger.
Thinking about the snippets of conversation I’d overheard, my first assumption was that the unknown man was a drug rep … a lackey of Big Pharma trying to get Conway on board with one of their new pharmaceuticals. I knew bribery was not uncommon in the medical world, but this guy didn’t look like any drug rep I’d seen before, and, believe me, I’d seen tons of them. The man was big, muscular, and his face was littered with pockmarks. He looked more like someone you wouldn’t want to bump into on the waterfront than a guy hawking drugs for Roche or Pfizer.
The two men were still talking, but now in whispers and I strained to hear.
“Daah, dah, dah, da-da-da-da-da-dah.”
The first notes of Abba’s “Dancing Queen” exploded from my phone. It was my wake-up call.
Both men turned and stared in my direction.
Knowing that if they caught me eavesdropping, I might find myself in an awkward situation, I quickly turned my head back to rest on my arms, closed my eyes, and then began what I hoped was a realistic impression of waking from a deep sleep.
I stretched, rubbing my eyes with my fists, then glanced at my phone as if checking for messages.
“Dr. Pomeroy.”
I feigned surprise, then turned to face Dr. Conway, who was now standing alone near the entry to the supply room. The other man had disappeared.
“Dr. Conway,” I responded, getting up off the cot. “I was just catching up on a little sleep. I had a late night in the E.R. due to that smash-up on I-5. Are you looking to use the cot?”
Dr. Conway frowned.
I waited.
He was obviously trying to find the right words.
Finally, he spoke. “You were asleep?”
I grinned. “Yeah. What else would I be doing in here on the cot?”
He didn’t answer.
I ran my fingers through my hair, then straightened my lab coat. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. The cot’s all yours if that’s what you’re here for.”
I started to walk past him toward the door, but he grabbed me by my arm.
“You didn’t hear anything, did you?” he asked, his voice taking on a strident quality.