Steamed Open

by Barbara Ross

  My fingers lingered over the keyboard of my laptop. Could Bartholomew Frick really keep everyone off the beach at Herrickson Point? I’d been puzzling about it all day. It was private property, but Mrs. Herrickson had allowed access to Sea Glass Beach and the lighthouse all my life, maybe longer. I tapped a few words into a search engine.

  What I discovered was eye-opening.

  Unlike most other ocean-bordering states, Maine property owners did not own to the high watermark. Instead, benefiting from a Colonial Ordinance issued in the 1640s to the Massachusetts Bay Colony, of which Maine was then a part, Maine property extended to the mean low tide mark. The Ordinance was intended to encourage the colonists to build wharves. I didn’t know if it had worked back then, but centuries of lawsuits and confusing court decisions had followed.

  There was an exception in the ordinance: the land between the tides could be freely used for fishing, fowling, and navigation. In court decisions, fishing had been interpreted broadly to include clamming, and other kinds of foraging that resulted in edible seafood. Fowling, on the other hand, had been interpreted narrowly, to mean only bird hunting, not bird watching. Navigation definitely didn’t mean you could pull up in a boat and picnic on someone’s beach.

  So there was, perhaps, hope for Will, though according to what I read, he couldn’t cross the Herrickson’s upland holdings to get to the tidal zone, and their upland holdings included the parking lot and access road. Will would have to load his clam rake, shovel, buckets, and such into a boat at a public ramp and then motor it around to Herrickson’s Point to do his clamming. Did he have a boat? Most, but not all, clammers did.

  That the Herricksons had allowed people to park in the lot and use the beach for decades didn’t seem to make a difference. I wondered if there’d been any type of easement or other requirement for access when the Herricksons bought the lighthouse from the government, but my search engine didn’t find me the answer.

  My head hurt and my eyes kept closing. It was one thirty, and I couldn’t wait for Chris any longer. As I powered off the laptop, I heard the outside back door to Gus’s restaurant open, followed by Chris’s familiar tread on the stairs to the apartment.

  “Hey,” I called.

  “You’re still up.”

  “I thought you might need to talk. How did today go?” My heart felt a pinch of pain when I saw the slump in his shoulders and the puffiness under his deep-set green eyes.

  He let out a long sigh and crossed the studio to the alcove where our clothes were stored. He put his wallet and keys on top of the bureau, as he did every night, the precise habits of a man who had spent his previous summers living on a sailboat where everything had its place. “Okay, I guess,” he answered, not looking at me.

  “How did your brother seem?” It was the most neutral question I could think of in a topic that was a psychological minefield for him, and terra incognito for me.

  Chris sat next to me on the couch and pulled me to him. The way he held me, resting on his side, was intimate, but it also kept me facing out, away from him, away from looking into his eyes. “He seemed the same. Which was weird, considering I haven’t seen him for almost ten years. And he’s in prison.”

  “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “No, they’d told him I was coming. He didn’t say it, but I think he was glad.”

  “And were you able to get past—”

  Chris cut me off. “We didn’t talk about the past.” Evidently, Chris and I weren’t going to, either.

  “Did you ask him about Emmy?” I wasn’t going to let him shut me out entirely.

  Emmy Bailey was the mother of Vanessa, my ten-year-old niece Page’s best friend. Vanessa had the most amazing green eyes, exactly the same as Chris’s. He didn’t see himself in her, but swore she was the image of his mother. Emmy, who worked at the clambake, was vague about Vanessa’s origins. Her baby Luther was her son with her ex-husband Art, but Vanessa had come long before they married. The product of a one-night stand was all Emmy would say. Chris was convinced his brother was Vanessa’s father. He was so convinced, he’d gone to Warren to visit his brother in the Maine State Penitentiary, even though they hadn’t spoken in years.

  “He said he could’ve known Emmy. Could’ve slept with her. She was in the right place at the right time, a time when he wasn’t with anybody specific. But he didn’t remember her. Her name didn’t ring a bell and he didn’t recall her when I described her.”

  “So we’re—”

  “Exactly where we were before.” He paused. “I’m going to ask Terry to take a DNA test.” I shifted around to face him. When I was silent he said, “You don’t think I should.”

  “You’d have to get Emmy to allow Vanessa to take one, too. Emmy has never shown the slightest interest.”

  Chris paused, acknowledging the challenge. “I can convince her.”

  We were quiet again. I’d never understood why Vanessa’s paternity was so important to Chris—why it had compelled him to heal the breach with his brother, take a day off during the season to travel to the prison, or why he was considering trying to convince a woman to help prove a paternity she didn’t seem to care about. When I’d asked him in the past, he’d said, “Because it’s the right thing.”

  I supposed it was the right thing. Vanessa had a right to know. She would certainly ask at some point. Maybe Terry had a right to know, too. His sentence was ending soon. But there had to be more to it for Chris to be so invested in a matter didn’t directly involve him.

  I’d learned to tread lightly. It wasn’t that Chris didn’t want to tell me. I was convinced he could only handle the subject so much at a time himself. Today, he’d handled a lot. We were both tired. It was way past time for bed.

  CHAPTER 4

  I called Will as soon as I got into my office the next morning. He reported the chain link gate was still blocking the road at Herrickson Point and he had nothing for me. I asked him to call if anything changed.

  I worried about the clam supply. Steamers were an important part of the clambake meal. Some people loved them more than the lobsters. Every restaurant in town would be scrambling to make sure they had enough.

  Luckily, the clambake’s resources were deep and I was able to line up the clams we needed. I made the rest of my calls and checked on the state of our reservations. They were still going strong. We had two tour bus groups for lunch today in addition to our other customers. My phone told me it was nine thirty. Still plenty of time until the boat. I took off for the police station.

  There I got lucky. Jamie was plucking at the computer at one of the two desks Busman’s Harbor’s seven sworn officers shared. “Here comes Trouble,” he said when he saw me. But he smiled when he said it.

  “I just spoke to Will Orsolini,” I said after I greeted him. “He told me the beach road at Herrickson Point is still fenced off.”

  “Yup. The town has filed an injunction, so that may change in the next few days, but that’s the way it’s going to be for now.”

  “We have a short summer season,” I pointed out. “Not many days to go to the beach.” He nodded. Of course he understood. Except for college, he’d been in Busman’s Harbor all his life.

  “I hear you, but it’s a complex situation.”

  “How does Frick even have the right to do this, so soon after Lou’s death? Her estate can’t have gone through probate yet.”

  “Apparently, Frick is both the ‘Responsible Person, ’ as we call executors in Maine, as well as the heir. He’s claiming that he’s protecting the property as the executor.”

  “At least the clammers should be able to access the beach. They have the right for fishing, fowling, and navigation,” I pointed out.

  “I see you’ve read up on the Ordinance of 1640, too. The clammers may have that right, but they have no right to cross the road or parking lot, which are clearly on the Herrickson property. Let the court do its work, Julia. If they decide for the town, we’ll enforce the law, believe me.”


  I got up to leave. “Were you able to help those people out, the ones who paid to stay in the keeper’s cottage at Herrickson Point Light?”

  “Not yet. Nice couple. I sent them over to Glooscap. They had one space left.”

  Camp Glooscap was a local RV park. Its new owners were doing well with it.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, but I didn’t leave.

  Jamie looked up from his computer. “Julia, what are you thinking? This isn’t your problem to solve. You understand that, right?”

  “It’s my problem if I don’t have clams at the height of the season,” I reminded him.

  “Julia—”

  His voice held a warning, but I was out the door.

  * * *

  What I was thinking was the legal process would grind slowly. Meanwhile, Will’s family would suffer, and so would the families of many other clammers.

  Jamie’s talk with Frick the day before must have been hurried, the tone influenced by the chanting crowd at the gate. Maybe no one had taken the time to tell Bartholomew Frick about the importance of the beach to the town. Perhaps a calm, reasoned discussion could accomplish what injunctions and angry mobs could not.

  I parked the Caprice on Rosehill Road across from the upper gates to Herrickson House. The long driveway that wound from the beach parking lot to the mansion was not how the residents of the house came and went. Instead, they used the two side entrances, where I was parked now, farther up Rosehill Road and closer to the house. A long, electronically operated gate guarded the drive that led to the two-story garage behind the house. Next to it, a pedestrian gate led to a path that ran parallel to the drive until it veered off to the house. A tall, neatly trimmed boxwood hedge stood along Rosehill Road, blocking access along the rest of the property line.

  The big car gate had a keypad, but no sign of a doorbell or speaker system. I pushed it, but it didn’t budge.

  I had higher hopes for the pedestrian gate. It was waist-high, painted a soft blue. A trellis arched over it, training the rosebushes for which the road was named.

  I pushed. Nothing. I reached over the gate to feel for a latch but felt only a lock with a place for a key, identical to the side I was on. I pulled. Nothing.

  If I wanted to reach Herrickson House, I was going to have to go in the way Jamie had. I left the Caprice parked on the road and walked toward the beach.

  As Will had told me, the chain link gate still barred the way. All was quiet for now. No crowd was gathered. I stood on the road and studied the sign—KEEP OUT. I’m a rule-follower by nature, but I put on hand on the boulder beside the gate post, hoisting myself up and over, the same way Jamie had gone the day before. He’s a foot taller than me and I had to scramble, but I made it.

  From the top of the rock I climbed down the other side, which put me in the beach parking lot. I followed it until I came to the long driveway lined with finely broken seashells that led up the hill to Herrickson House.

  Mom had said Herrickson House and the mansion on our island, Windsholme, were of the same era, perhaps even the same architect. Both had stone foundations, shingle sides, and towering chimneys. But while Windsholme stood strong and straight against the Atlantic, a miracle of balance and proportion, Herrickson House was all balconies and turrets, nooks and crannies. Both houses were impressive, but while Windsholme was a stately grand dame, Herrickson House was a debutante in a frilly party dress.

  I squared my shoulders. I’d never felt intimidated by the outside of the house when Lou lived there, but she didn’t anymore. Despite the bright sun, or maybe because of the shadows it cast on the deep, irregular crevices, the house radiated a menacing darkness.

  I put one foot in front of the other and marched up the driveway, holding my head high and trying to project the attitude I had every right to be there. As I climbed onto the porch, my chest tightened. But really what was the worst Frick could do, yell at me? I’d been yelled at by better people.

  I’d taken two steps across the porch when the front door banged open. Ida Fischer, Lou’s longtime housekeeper, stomped onto the porch, carrying a giant handbag. She looked me up and down. “He’s in the study. I’d announce you, but I’ve quit.”

  My mouth dropped open. I tried to shut it to say some words, but couldn’t manage it.

  “Good luck with whatever it is you’ve come to talk to him about. He is the most odious person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. I’ve left a note, but if he wonders where I am, feel free to tell him I’m no longer in his employ. If anyone’s looking to reach me, I’ll be at my sister’s.”

  “Are you sure?” I stammered.

  “I am. That awful man shouldn’t be allowed to live in this magnificent house.”

  Her voice caught on the final words, and I realized how hard it must be for her losing Lou. They’d been together, the two of them, day in and day out for decades. I put a hand out to pat her upper arm. When I did, she put her hand over mine, and said, “Thank you.” She gave her head a small shake, and then climbed down the steps.

  I watched her as she marched down the path that led to the pedestrian gate, her enormous handbag swinging from her crooked elbow. When she reached the gate, she jerked it toward her. Evidently a key wasn’t needed to open it from the inside. In a flash, she was out on Rosehill Road, climbing into an old brown Toyota I hadn’t seen arrive. The car took off and she was gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  The front door was still wide open as Ida Fischer had left it. I stuck my head into the front reception room and called, “Mr. Frick? Bartholomew?”

  The sound of my voice echoed through the big house, but no one responded. I took a cautious step inside. I’d never been inside Herrickson House before.

  The first reception room was large and light-filled, with a grand staircase coming down the far wall, just like Windsholme, but here the room was oval-shaped, with smooth walls in a fine-grained, light wood and an inglenook under the center of the stairs. On the floor, an oval Oriental rug fit perfectly, leaving a couple of feet of polished wood flooring around its edge. In the center of the room was an oval table, and on it a large, oval glass bowl. The bowl was empty, but I imagined it had held flowers when Lou reigned.

  There was a piece of white stationery on the table. I didn’t even have to get close to it to snoop. I QUIT, it said in big block letters. WILL COME BACK FOR MY THINGS. IDA FISCHER.

  “Mr. Frick! Bartholomew Frick!” I shouted louder, trying to make sure he knew I was there. Given how he felt about having people on his property, I was sure he wouldn’t be a fan of me wandering in his house.

  I took another few steps. To my left, an archway opened into an enormous living room. I walked through the opening and stopped. The room was amazing, and pure Lou. There was art from every era of human history on the walls, huge abstracts in dazzling colors, medium-sized landscapes with milkmaids and shepherds, large photographs, painted miniatures, and tiny cut silhouettes. It was crazy and should have looked awful, but somehow it was wonderful, and so much like Lou, who had loved the visual arts above all things and who had been an artist herself.

  I walked fully into the room, was pulled into it really, by its dazzling display. The furniture was mid-century modern, including the long leather sofa, but didn’t look out of place in the Victorian era house. The built-in bookshelves and occasional tables were crowded with framed photographs, from old black and white ones, right up through Lou’s hundredth birthday party the previous year. On the other side of the room were two doorways, one on either side of the fireplace. I kept going. “Mr. Frick! Bartholomew!”

  I chose the doorway to the left of the hearth, though it turned out it didn’t matter, both doors led to a long room with three walls of windows. The room was dominated by a tall desk full of pigeonholes and drawers. Bartholomew Frick stood in front of it, squinting in concentration at a yellowed piece of paper covered in brown script.

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Frick.”

  “Yikes!” He str
aightened up so quickly he almost jumped. “Do you always sneak up on people? Why didn’t that woman announce you?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. Fischer isn’t here.” It was a deliberately ambiguous answer. Let him find the note. I wasn’t going to be the one to break it to him. “I’m Julia Snowden. We met yesterday on my tour boat.”

  He ignored my outstretched hand, folded the paper he’d been reading, put it in a yellowed envelope, and dropped it on a pile of similar envelopes on the desk. It only took him a few seconds, but I felt like a fool with my hand out.

  He rolled down the top of the desk, finally reaching for my hand. “Bartholomew Frick,” he said. “Call me Bart. What brings you here?”

  “This place is amazing,” I said.

  “You’ve never been here?” he asked.

  “Never inside.”

  “Come. Let’s walk. As long as you’re here, you may as well see it.”

  I was surprised by the invitation. He didn’t seem like the awful man Ida had described, the man who’d put up the fence.

  He started toward the archway to the living room, leading me through it, back to the entry hall. If he saw Ida Fischer’s note on the table, he ignored it, moving me toward the dining room, which showed the same exuberant mix of decoration as the living room. A modern glass dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs from the last three centuries stood at the room’s center. Beneath the table was an orange shag carpet, which somehow worked in the room. As in the other spaces, the walls were crowded with art, from African masks to American folk art to antique maps. It was like a museum. Not an antiseptic museum with lots of white walls and fancy lighting, but a Victorian’s idea of a museum, like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.