Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  “So, are we settled? You’ll go to Storm and get the house ready?”

  “Huh?” I said, my aunt catching me off-guard.

  “Storm? You’re going?”

  “Yes, Auntie. I’ll go. But what about therapy?”

  My aunt smiled. “You don’t need therapy. Just the R and Rs … rest and relaxation. You’ll be fine. Residency at that hellhole could do this to anyone. A few weeks away and you’ll be ready to go again. Trust me.”

  A dozen small white cartons were delivered from Chin Chin’s and we all sat at the dining room table to eat. Raoul made sure everyone’s drink was refreshed and kept a running commentary about his upcoming trip as he parceled out the food.

  “And, now,” he said conspiratorially, leaning toward me. “I’m going to tell you a secret.”

  “A secret?” I replied, laughing. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

  “What do you think my greatest fear is? You know, my phobia?”

  I looked at him puzzled. “I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”

  He laughed. “Oh, my dear, everyone is afraid of something. Am I not right, Hephzibah?”

  Aunt Hettie nodded. “He’s right. Everyone has some little thing that sets the soul on edge.”

  “Well,” I responded. “I’m at a loss to figure out what Raoul’s is.”

  My uncle winked at me. “I must confess. I am afraid of flying!”

  “Get out!” I exclaimed. “You’re always on a plane to somewhere. How could you possibly be afraid of flying?”

  He laughed. “But I am. The mere thought of being thousands of feet in the air, encased in a metal cigar, gets my heart pounding in dread.”

  “But how do you do it then? I mean, you’re always on a plane.”

  Raoul gave Hettie a sly wink. “Drugs, my dear. Drugs make it all possible. My sweet wife makes sure I take a Xanax before each flight. As a result, I am blissfully asleep until I reach my destination.”

  I looked to Hettie for confirmation.

  “That’s right,” she said. “He breaks into a cold sweat as soon as we reach the airport. Then, he takes his pill.”

  “Interesting,” I replied. “What about you, Auntie? Is there anything you’re afraid of?”

  She nodded. “As I said, we all have our phobias, dear. Mine, I’m afraid, is a fear of small spaces. Claustrophobia.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “Now, what about you, Katherine?” asked Raoul. “What are your deepest, darkest fears?”

  I thought about the nightmare I’d had on the plane. I knew what my greatest fear was but I wasn’t going to air that laundry here tonight.

  “Come on. Fess up, sweet Katherine,” cajoled Raoul.

  “Okay,” I laughed. “Insects. Spiders to be specific. When I see one, I always conjure up the image of that giant creature in Lord of the Rings – Shelob, I think her name was – and when I reach for the bug spray, I find myself wishing that, instead, I had Bilbo’s sword ‘Sting’ to slay the beastie with.”

  Raoul laughed. “Spiders! How quaint! Funny isn’t it, we always think of those arachnids as feminine, don’t we? You never hear of a spider named Jack, Jim, or Raoul, do you?”

  “You’re right about that,” I acknowledged. “When I think of them scurrying around…”

  I raised my shoulders, shuddering at the thought. Raoul laughed.

  “Have some more Kung Pao,” he said. “The heat from the sauce will scare even the evilest spider away!”

  Later, after I stuffed myself full of Chinese food, most of which was foreign to me, I lay in my bed, thinking about where I was headed the next day.

  Storm Island.

  We’d vacationed there, my mother and me, every summer when I was little. Dad was too busy with his career and only came up for a week or so in August. But Mom and I stayed the whole summer.

  Cassandra Jones Pomeroy. My mother.

  She was a poet from San Francisco. My dad met her when he was visiting for a medical conference. He and some of his colleagues stopped by a small coffee shop after dinner and Mom was there doing a reading. I think it was love at first sight. At least, it was for my father. Smitten, he hastily changed his travel plans and stayed on in the city for another few days, pursuing her. They were married eight weeks later.

  After the first glow of their relationship wore off, Dad found himself in a tempestuous marriage … full of ups and downs. Mom was a free spirit, while Dad had his feet solidly planted on the ground. But, when they put their differences aside and came together, something magical happened.

  They’d been married about a year when I came along. My mother treated me as if I were a mystical sprite from some far-off land and let my father worry about colic, diaper rash, and the other mundane childhood illnesses.

  We started going to Storm when I was three. I remember days spent at the beach building sand castles and the nights, Mom and me, tucked away safely in the big brass bed at the carriage house, her reading to me until I fell asleep.

  How I loved those summers.

  Dad would come up, usually in late August, just before it was time to go home. I resented him some then because he took Mom away from me, but now, in retrospect, I cherish those memories, too. Mom and Dad walking hand-in-hand on the beach at sunset … or the way they looked at each other, eyes full of love and passion.

  We went to Storm every summer until I was ten and, each season, Mom would keep a journal, which she would write in daily. Some of the entries were poems or observations about the place, the people, and the weather. Other times, she would write out her feelings – long dissertations on the attitudes and social mores of the place.

  She would read to me from her journals at night. I didn’t understand everything then, but that didn’t matter. I was content just to hear her voice and be a part of her world.

  But everything changed that final summer when I was ten.

  It was late in the season and Dad was expected in a week or two. We’d been having a wonderful time and I knew Mom was looking forward to his arrival. She was generally always in a good mood, but that last morning I knew something upset her and I remember wondering if I had done something wrong.

  After breakfast, she grabbed her sunhat and purse, and told me to stay at the carriage house. Said she had business at Stormview Manor and would be back in an hour.

  I watched her go, her face set in anger.

  An hour went by, then two, then three. It was past lunch and I was getting hungry. Not knowing what else to do, I disobeyed and went looking for her.

  The manor house was deserted as I crept in the heavy, wooden front door. I remember calling out for her, but no one answered. I yelled for my aunt, too, but everything in the house was as silent as the grave.

  Finding no one on the main floor, I went up the long staircase to the second story. I tiptoed down the hall, knocking lightly on each bedroom door as I passed, hoping I would find my mother or someone who knew where she had gone.

  No one answered. The first two floors were deserted.

  I’d never been on the third floor … it was unoccupied due to the expense of heating and cooling. I remember feeling a little frightened, but I climbed up the spiral staircase anyway.

  At the top was the door to the tower room – a door that was usually kept locked. My aunt didn’t want anyone up there, afraid that if I, or some other child, found a way onto the widow’s walk, we would be in danger of falling and being crushed on the jagged rocks that lay below.

  However, today, this did not deter me. I reached for the doorknob and was surprised when it turned easily.

  Slowly, I pushed the door open.

  The room had a cathedral ceiling and was furnished with a large, four-poster, mahogany bed, matching dresser, and nightstand. But I saw none of this.

  I stood frozen, my eyes glued to only one thing.

  Hanging from the central ceiling fan was the body of my mother.

  Her feet were bare and, to my child’s eyes, l
ooked cold and lonely. Her head lolled to the side at an odd angle, hair falling into her face, obscuring her eyes.

  But what held me transfixed was the worst horror of all. Someone had left the fan on and as it completed each revolution, my mother’s lifeless body twirled with it, ‘round and ‘round.

  Tears slipped down my cheeks as I remembered that day. I don’t recall much after that. I think I screamed, turned off the fan, and tried to get her down, but I’m not sure. I do remember Raoul lifting me in his arms and carrying me away.

  Later, when I was back in California, my father tried to explain what had happened. He told me Mom was sick and had been sick for a long time. I didn’t understand. She wasn’t coughing and didn’t have a fever. But he explained the sickness wasn’t in her body. It was in her mind. He called it bi-polar. Said that Mom was either very happy or very sad and that, this summer, in her sadness, she took her own life.

  I asked if it were my fault … had I done something to make her sad? He had a hard time with that question and I remember he hesitated, maybe just a tad too long. Then he pulled me into his lap and told me, “No, it wasn’t your fault … it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  I tried hard to understand, but one thing continued to puzzle me. My mother had been happy that summer. She was angry on the day she died … over what, I don’t know. But, sad? I didn’t think so then and something in my gut kept me from believing it now.

  That summer was the last one I spent on Storm … the last one until now. Tomorrow I would be going there again and, as I pulled the covers up to my chin, I wondered what other horrors that island had in store for me.

  I turned off the light, hugged my pillow to my chest, and closed my eyes. I was tired but knew that, in light of the memories that plagued my mind, the refuge of sound sleep would be hard to come by.

  I was right about the sleep. I tossed and turned all night and, finally giving up, left my bed around five. I slipped into the bathroom and took a hot shower and washed my hair. Back in my bedroom, I rummaged through the clothes my father had packed, looking for something suitable to wear in Maine. Amongst all the frilly skirts and dresses, I finally found one pair of jeans and a UCSF sweatshirt, which I gladly put on. Then I tiptoed out of the room to the kitchen.

  Hettie and Raoul’s coffee maker was way too complex for my feeble mind, so I quickly scanned the cabinets in search of some instant. Finally finding a jar of Maxwell House that looked older than God, I pulled a mug from the shelf, filled it with water and a tablespoon of the dried-out powder, then put it in the microwave.

  With a cup of hot java in hand, I walked to the living room and stood staring out the window at the city below. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon and it looked to be a beautiful early summer day. I wondered what the weather would be like in Maine. It was just the first week of June and summer would only be on the brink up there.

  My reverie was interrupted by the sound of a door closing and footsteps coming my way. I turned.

  Aunt Hettie, wearing a silk kimono, her long hair streaming down her back, was walking toward me.

  “Up early, I see,” she said as she approached. “Trouble sleeping? I always have a hard time sleeping in a strange bed, too. Did you make coffee?”

  I laughed. “Not coffee as you know it. I found some instant.”

  She made a face. “Oh, no. Give me your cup. I’ll make you some proper coffee.”

  I handed her my half-full cup. “I went through the clothes my dad packed. Most are skirts and dresses. Can I leave them here so I can make room in my bag for stuff more appropriate for the island?”

  “Of course you can. Empty the bag out and fill it up at REI. And, don’t worry about the cost. It’s on Raoul. He can afford it.”

  She handed me a fresh cup of coffee and indicated I should sit with her at the dining room table.

  “Now these are the medications I spoke about last night.”

  She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out two prescription bottles and slid them across the table to me.

  “What are they?” I asked, noting there was no labeling information on the bottles.

  “Oh, they’re new. New to the market. The capsules are called Serenatol and the tabs, Xydahol. Serenatol is from Pfizer; the other one’s Merck.”

  I stared at the little bottles of pills. “Why haven’t I heard of them before?”

  Aunt Hettie smiled. “First of all, they’re psychiatric drugs and I don’t think you’d use them too often in surgery. Secondly, as I said, they’re both new to the market. I managed to get these samples from the drug reps.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Serenatol is, as the name implies, a sedative-type drug. It relaxes. You should take one every evening before bedtime. Xydahol is an anxiety-reducer. It’s not strong, but should help take the edge off. You can take up to four a day. Alcohol is contraindicated when on these drugs, so you’ll have to restrain yourself. But if you’re going out socially with friends and think you might have a glass of wine or two, skip the Xydahol and just take the Serenatol before bed.”

  “But I feel fine. I don’t think I need any medication.”

  “Darling, trust me. What happened to you in the operating theatre was the result of stress. You may feel fine now, but if something happens to raise your anxiety level again so soon after the last attack, you might find yourself re-hospitalized. You don’t want to take that chance. These drugs, over a few weeks, will help you to detoxify your mind and, once that happens, you’ll be able to return to your residency. But you need both time away from the hospital and the medications.”

  I looked again at the little bottles of pills, then stuffed them into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s a good girl. Now, how about some breakfast? Raoul makes absolutely the best huevos rancheros.”

  “You are one hundred percent correct, my dear,” laughed Raoul as he entered the room, leaned over, and kissed Hettie on the cheek. “For three?”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’m game. Just don’t make mine too spicy.”

  After breakfast, I quickly unpacked and put all the clothes that were not suitable for the island in the spare room closet. Hettie and Raoul left for their respective offices at eight, leaving me alone in the apartment to wait for the driver.

  David arrived promptly at ten and took my bags to the car while I locked up and deposited the keys with the doorman.

  First stop was REI. Hettie instructed me to check in at Customer Service and ask for Annette. David phoned ahead that we were on our way, and also informed her of my sizes and color preferences. Shopping like this was uncharted territory for me, but it was nice to be pampered for a change.

  We left REI a little after eleven, loaded with boxes and bags. Our next stop was Paragon Sports and I spent an hour trying on clothes and shoes and ogling the accessories.

  By one o’clock, I was exhausted and hungry.

  “There’s a nice restaurant near the airfield,” suggested David. “Nothing fancy, but they make great cheeseburgers and fries.”

  “That sounds great,” I responded. “You’ll join me, won’t you?”

  We had a nice lunch at the diner then proceeded to the airfield, where the charter was waiting to take me to Portland. From there, I would catch another limo to the wharf and then would hop aboard a water taxi to the island. Expected arrival time was around six p.m.

  Hettie advised that she had placed an order with Whole Foods to stock the larder at the carriage house. The groceries would be shipped to the island the same day, a little before I arrived, and would be waiting for me when I got there.

  Everything was running like a well-oiled machine and it amazed me that Hettie had been able to put this all together on such short notice. I’d begun taking my new pills that morning and was pleasantly surprised at how good I felt. The Xydahol didn’t make me drowsy or seem to affect the way my brain functioned. All I felt was a very comforting sense o
f well-being.

  Storm Island

  THE PLANE WAS all set to go when we arrived at the airfield, so I said goodbye to David, thanking him again for everything, and got on board. The flight was a short one, only a little over an hour, so I pulled out my tablet and settled down with a good book.

  Right on schedule, the limo picked me up at the airport and took me to the wharf, where I boarded a water taxi.

  At six-fifteen p.m., we arrived at Storm Island.

  As I stepped from the boat, I glanced around. Everything looked the same as it had nineteen years before. It was as if Storm Island had been caught in a time warp and I thought that, any minute, I would hear my mother call my name and warn me not to get too close to the edge of the dock.

  I stood quietly for a moment, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the island.

  “Miss … I mean, Dr. Pomeroy?”

  Surprised, I turned.

  “I’m Matty, Miss.”

  The man speaking to me was elderly, wearing faded, baggy jeans and a flannel shirt. A Red Sox ball cap covered his head from which unruly strands of wiry gray hair peeked out at odd intervals.

  “Matty?” I questioned, wondering if this was someone I should remember from my youth.

  “Oh, sorry, Miss, I mean Doctor. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Matty, your taxi driver. You are Dr. Pomeroy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m sorry. You caught me woolgathering. I’m Kate, Kate Pomeroy. Nice to meet you, Matty.”