Steamed Open

by Barbara Ross

  “I remember,” Mr. Barnard said.

  “How could we forget?” Mrs. Barnard added. “Such a disappointment.”

  They seemed to be headed in my direction, so I walked with them. “Were you able to get your money back from Bart Frick?” I asked.

  “We don’t want our money back!” Anne snapped. “We want him to honor the commitment his aunt made and let us stay overnight in the keeper’s cottage at Herrickson Point Light.”

  “We have a goal to see, touch or stay in every lighthouse in the United States,” Glen explained. “Whatever access they allow, we participate at the highest level.”

  “Wow.” There were more than sixty lighthouses in Maine alone, spread along five thousand miles of coast and islands. And this in a single state.

  “We toured the west coast first,” Glen explained, as if reading my mind. “It’s closer to where we live. Then the Great Lakes. Now we’re working our way down the east coast. Or trying to. We’d hoped to finish all, or at least most, of New England this summer and fall.”

  “Lighthouses light the way,” Anne added. “Just as they were a beacon for sailors, they are a symbol of our hope that we will find our way safely to shore.” Her thin voice was solemn, as if weighed down by the words. These people took their lighthouses seriously.

  Did they know Frick was dead? It didn’t sound like it. On the one hand, they weren’t from the area and weren’t on the local grapevine. Tourists often traveled in happy, news-free bubbles that were part of the experience of being on the road. On the other hand, Jamie had said they were staying in at Camp Glooscap where Frick’s murder must be the talk of the place, just as it was everywhere else in town. And if the Barnards had hung around the beach after I saw them barreling down the road yesterday, they would have seen it all—the cops, the crime scene technicians, the medical examiner’s van.

  “Did you talk to Bart Frick yesterday?” I asked.

  “No.” Anne shook her head. “We did go down to the beach yesterday morning to try to talk to him. We called from the road, but he never did come out. We couldn’t figure out how to get past the gate. That Officer Dawes climbed over that big boulder, but we couldn’t take it on. Honestly, we don’t even know if he was there.”

  So they didn’t know. Since I’d told Binder and Flynn the Barnards were headed toward Herrickson Point as I was leaving, the detectives would probably be talking to them soon. I was sure they’d prefer I didn’t tell the Barnards about the murder. They weren’t friends of mine like Will was, and I didn’t feel the need to give them a heads up.

  “What will you do now?” I asked.

  “We’ll see other lights in this area. There are historical re-enactors who give a tour of Dinkum’s Light, though they’re only open a couple of days a week. Gray’s Light is also on an island. I’m told there are boat tours that take you past it, but you can’t get off. If we really can’t even get out to, much less sleep overnight at Herrickson Point Light, we’ll move on down the coast. So much to see and do!”

  We were in front of Mom’s house. “My family’s company offers an authentic Maine clambake on an island that includes a harbor tour. You can see Dinkum’s, Herrickson Point and Gray’s Light from our boat. We’d love to see you there while you’re in the area.”

  Glen beamed. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “We’ll see.” Anne was much less enthusiastic. “We have a lot to do.”

  They moved off down the hill, both of them striding purposefully. I knew the tourist shops on Main Street would offer them more lighthouse tchotchkes than their lighthouse-loving hearts could handle.

  I was almost to the steps of Mom’s house when I heard a “yoo-hoo!” from across the street. “Julia! Come over and tell us about the murder,” Vee Snugg called. “I have fresh raspberry muffins on the kitchen table.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Fiona and Viola Snugg, known to all as Fee and Vee, were our dear friends and honorary great aunts. They were sisters and proprietors of the Snuggles Inn, a popular bed-and-breakfast across the street from Mom’s house. When he was alive, my father had plowed their drive and shoveled their walk. Fee had planted and cared for my parents’ gardens, and both sisters had looked after our empty house over the summers we’d stayed on Morrow Island.

  Their kitchen was one of my favorite places in the world. As soon as I smelled Vee’s raspberry muffins the resolve that had led to the poached egg breakfast evaporated. Their wooden kitchen table, dinged and dented by the loving preparation of thousands of meals, was already set for three, with china tea cups and plates painted with delicate pink flowers. I had walked into a trap.

  I sat in my usual seat along the side of the table while the sisters sat at either end. Fee poured the tea. The Snuggs were in their mid-seventies and as different as sisters could be. Vee’s gorgeous white hair was, as always, swept up in a chignon, her makeup perfect. Under a frilly bib apron she wore a tailored dress, hosiery, and heels, no matter the weather or the task.

  Fee had worn her steel grey hair in a short pageboy for as long as I could remember. She peered at the world through thick glasses, her face clean, wrinkles unaltered. She was hunched over by painful arthritis, though it never seemed to slow her down as she stalked up and down the harbor hills with her Scottish terrier, the current one named Mackie. Neither sister had ever married.

  “We heard about the trouble at Herrickson House,” Vee said as she passed the muffins. “Our friend Mary Beth Gagnon has a summer cottage on Rosehill Road. She saw the officers and the medical examiner’s van. They were in and out of the mansion all day. And Dan Small saw a state policeman walk you off the town pier last night. He told his mother and she told us.”

  “So we know you know something,” Fee added. “But what do you know?”

  What, indeed? I explained about how I had gone to Herrickson House, had the tour, and pleaded the case for access to the beach, with absolutely no results. And how Bart Frick was very much alive when I left. “So that’s why the police wanted to talk to me,” I finished.

  “But how was Mr. Frick killed?” Fee blinked behind her thick glasses.

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Binder at Gus’s this morning. He said the autopsy isn’t final.” I’d lose access to the few crumbs Binder deigned to give me if he thought I was blabbing all over town.

  “The lieutenant was at Gus’s?” I could hear the frustration in Vee’s voice. During the off-season, the sisters would have staked out the restaurant every morning until they “ran into” the lieutenant and his oh-so-handsome sergeant. In the summertime, however, they were tethered to the B&B, with guests coming and going, rooms to clean, and beds to change. Their near-daily forays to Hannaford to buy the ingredients for the English breakfasts Vee made were their only chance to get out.

  “I don’t think the lieutenant is staying in town,” I answered. “He told me he went back to Augusta last night and returned to Busman’s Harbor early this morning.” I spread my arms out, palms up. “I don’t know much more than you do.”

  “Ida Fischer’s a dear friend of ours,” Vee said, slathering butter on her muffin. “She goes to the Congo Church.”

  The Congo Church, as everyone called the Congregationalists, was one of two white-steepled churches that poked up among the other buildings that surrounded the town common. The Snugg sisters were devoted members, and regular attendees during the off-season. They couldn’t attend in the summer, which they called the “re-run season,” a period of recycled sermons, or visiting clergy filling in for their vacationing minister.

  My mouth was full of muffin, so I nodded to show I knew of the friendship. I remembered Ida had huddled with the sisters at Lou’s memorial on the Jacquie II.

  “These last years, Lou Herrickson and Ida Fischer have been best friends more than employer–employee,” Fee said. “It’s a terrible time for poor Ida. To have lost her friend. And now this.”

  “When did Mrs. Fischer go to work for Lou?” I asked. “She’s been at Herrickson House
forever.”

  “Ida went to the Herrickson family when she was a teenager,” Fee said. “It was the early sixties and the Herricksons still had a cook, a housekeeper, and a maid living in.”

  “That was the end of an era,” Vee added. “The last gasp.”

  “Anyway,” Fee continued the story. “Eventually Ida married and left. But later in life, many years later, she was in difficult straits and she returned to the Herricksons to beg for work. Frank and Lou were married by then and they gave her a job and a place to live. After Frank died, Ida stayed on. Her loyalty was as much to Lou at that point as it was to Frank’s family.”

  “And to the house,” Vee said. “She loves that house as if it was her own.”

  “And now to have that man murdered in the only home she knows.” Vee shuddered.

  They were silent for a moment, each lost in her own thoughts. I focused on the tangy, sweet moistness of Vee’s raspberry muffin and waited for them to say their piece. Vee’s fruit muffins were always a wonder. The muffin showcased, and never overpowered, the fresh taste of the fruit.

  “You see, the thing is—” Fee started.

  “We think Ida may be in terrible trouble with the police,” Vee finished.

  I’d believed the sisters were plying me with tea and baked goods to find out what I knew about Bartholomew Frick’s murder. Now, it appeared they had another agenda. I put the remaining corner of muffin back on my plate.

  “Everyone in town knows Ida didn’t think much of Mr. Frick,” Fee said.

  “Two days ago, I was in an angry mob of people, none of whom thought much of Mr. Frick,” I pointed out.

  “She quit her job at Herrickson House yesterday,” Vee added. “Right before the murder.”

  So my presence at that particular scene wasn’t yet known around town. “I don’t think she should worry.” Binder and Flynn had interviewed Ida Fischer before they’d talked to me. She was the one who placed me at the scene before Frick died, not the other way around. “What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.

  Across the table, the sisters traded glances freighted with meaning. How much to say? I imagined them communicating telepathically. Fee shook her head. “It’s better if Ida tells you herself.”

  Vee reached across the table and took my hands. “We think Ida is going to need your help. If we can get her here to talk with you tomorrow morning, will you come?”

  “Of course, but I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “You always help people if you can.” Fee seemed to have no doubt. “That’s one of the many reasons we love you.”

  What could I say to that?

  CHAPTER 11

  I ran to the clambake office and confirmed I had enough commitments for steamers from my other suppliers. I had a few extra minutes, so I called Will on his cell.

  “How’d it go with the police this morning?” I asked.

  “About as you might expect on a day when a friend’s first question is, ‘How’d it go with the police? ’”

  “So not bad?”

  “Not bad. I’m trying to stay calm. I don’t want to freak Nikki out more than she already is. The cops wanted to know why my truck was at the end of Rosehill Road yesterday, so I told them. I took my boat out to clam.”

  But I hadn’t seen him on the beach or in the water.

  “I took the boat all the way around to the other side of the point,” Will continued, as if sensing my doubts. “Maybe somebody saw me. I’m asking around with the lobstermen.”

  No wonder I hadn’t seen him. “Good luck with that.”

  “You should try me for clams again tomorrow,” he added. “The clammers on Keyport Beach have taken pity on us and we’re welcome there. It’s not as nice as Sea Glass, and there’ll be a lot of us out there, but what Keyport lacks in charm it makes up in size. I should be able to get my full three bushels.”

  “That’s great.” I was relieved Will would be back to work. “I haven’t gone clamming since my grandpa used to take Livvie and me when we were kids.”

  “You should come.” The invitation was spontaneous.

  “Really?”

  “Why not? Meet me at Keyport Beach at five thirty.”

  Why not, indeed? It would be fun to see our food supply from harvest to plate and would give me a story to tell our guests. “You’re on. See you then.”

  I pressed END and ran for the boat.

  As the Jacquie II moved away from the pier, the murder of Bart Frick seemed to recede with it. The boat was full of out-of-towners, who pointed and snapped photos as Captain George told them where to look. The sky was a light, clear blue, not a cloud in sight. It was warm in town, which meant out on the water, and on Morrow Island, the temperature would be ideal.

  Lunch service went off perfectly. Le Roi made his way from picnic table to picnic table, caging bits of lobster and clams from the guests who found him charming.

  Emmy Bailey scurried from the kitchen to the dining pavilion, bringing the drinks, the clam chowder, and the blueberry grunt swimming in vanilla ice cream we served for dessert. I was grateful she and I didn’t have time to do more than wave “hi” as we passed.

  At two thirty, I rang the old ship’s bell that told the guests to return to the Jacquie II. Captain George and his crew headed back to town and we could breathe, at least for a few minutes. Lunch was gazpacho full of summer vegetables, along with cold cuts and cheese and loaves of Italian bread. I took a bowl of the soup and sat down at a nearly empty table.

  Emmy brought her bowl and sat across from me. “Did you have a chance to talk to Chris?” She asked the question before she even took a bite.

  “Yes.” I smiled at her to keep it light. She smiled back. “He won’t be asking you about Vanessa’s dad anymore.”

  “Thank you.”

  I didn’t tell her that was because he’d asked me to talk to her about getting a sample of her daughter’s DNA. It was way too weird. I wasn’t going to ask her until and unless I knew a lot more about why Chris wanted it done, and probably not even then.

  She changed the subject, describing Luther’s latest, highly comic attempts at walking. We both laughed and I was relieved the Chris conversation was behind us and we were still friends.

  As I finished my meal, a movement out at sea caught my eye. Quentin’s racing sailboat The Flitter-mouse motored up to the side of our dock not used by the Jacquie II. Wyatt Jayne stood on the deck in enormous sunglasses and another selection from her apparently unlimited wardrobe of colorful summer shifts. Sonny ran to help them tie up.

  The first off the boat was Quentin’s new dog, Bess. Quentin had been rich since college, when he’d invented a tiny piece of code that now made every computer in the world run faster. His wealth had made him suspicious of new friends, and he’d spent most of the last twenty years moving from one lavish, lonely house to another.

  Bess, a slightly overweight, middle-aged golden retriever he’d adopted from a shelter, represented a positive step in reconnecting with other living beings. Quentin’s relationship with Wyatt represented another. They’d been a couple years earlier, before he’d come out. Since reconnecting, they’d fallen into a bantering friendship that benefited both of them.

  Wyatt had her own stuff to deal with. Her near-engagement the previous spring had blown up spectacularly. Her almost-fiancé was still in town having his mega-yacht refitted at a local shipyard. They were talking cautiously, but nothing had come of it so far. I was glad she had Quentin’s support.

  I bused my bowl and met Wyatt and Quentin halfway up the lawn. “I didn’t expect you two today.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here, either,” Wyatt said. “But I couldn’t wait to share my research with you. That tip your Mom gave me about Herrickson House yielded gold.” She pulled a yellowed journal from her slim leather portfolio. “Look!”

  The page she held in front of me had a line drawing of the facade of Herrickson House, along with plans for the main and second floors. A label on the top of
the page said, ARCHITECT: HENRY GILBERT. “Herrickson House was Gilbert’s second solo commission. If Windsholme was, as I believe, his first, getting inside Herrickson House will be so illuminating, especially if the interior is relatively intact. It will tell us so much about what Gilbert intended.” She looked from Quentin to me, and back again, sensing we didn’t share her level of enthusiasm.

  I looked over her head at him. He drew his brows together and nodded curtly. So he’d heard about the murder, or at least knew that Bart Frick was dead, which would make Wyatt’s goal to see the interior of the house unlikely, if not impossible to meet in the near term. Why hadn’t he told her?

  “That’s great, Wyatt. I, ee, er . . .” I stumbled getting the words out. “Since Mom told you about Herrickson House, there have been some complications.” I glared at Quentin, willing him to help me out. He was stone-faced.

  “I know the house is in an estate, if that’s what you mean. But I imagine we can get permission from the executor, or the heir . . .” she trailed off.

  “That might be complicated.” I told Wyatt what I knew about the situation. When I said Bart Frick had been murdered, Quentin’s blonde eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t heard that part.

  Wyatt stopped me. “Wait. You were in the house yesterday?”

  “That’s what you got out of my story?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s really complicated. I heard you. But what about the interiors?”

  I closed my eyes and remembered my tour through the rooms at Herrickson House. Bart Frick was alive and walking beside me, telling me about the paintings, the sculpture and the collections. The interior was, as I saw it, intact. Despite the profusion of art hanging on the walls, it seemed unlikely any had been moved. I hadn’t seen the kitchen or any of the bathrooms, the most likely spaces to have been renovated, but Wyatt wouldn’t care so much about those.

  “Herrickson House is full of stuff,” I told her. “But my guess is the interior hasn’t been altered.”

  She practically bounced in her sandals.