Steamed Open

by Barbara Ross

  “This is more important.” He drew me to him again. “You are more important. I’m sorry. I’ve been a jerk about this whole thing. I see that now. I should have told you a long time ago.”

  “I know it’s been hard for you, too.”

  He nodded. “It has. The whole subject ties me in knots. And I’ve lived with it over twenty years. I can’t imagine how you feel.”

  The guests were off the Jacquie II. Our employees disembarked while Captain George and his crew buttoned the boat up for the night. As she walked up the pier, Mom caught my eye. She understood it wasn’t a moment to intrude and went on ahead toward Main Street.

  “I want to understand. And move forward,” I told Chris.

  He kissed me then, right there on the pier.

  We walked toward our apartment, Chris with his arm around me.

  “Julia!” As we passed the Snuggles Inn, the sound of Fee Snugg’s voice came from deep within its porch. It wasn’t unusual for her to be out there at that hour. Vee went to bed early because she cooked breakfast, but Fee stayed up until the last guests were in their rooms so she could lock up. Chris and I walked toward the porch so Fee wouldn’t have to shout.

  “Ida called. The police have asked her to come back to the station tomorrow,” Fee told us. “They said they’re re-interviewing everyone, but she doesn’t believe them. Up to now she’s been stoic, but tonight she sounded upset and scared. Have you made any progress?”

  “Maybe. I’ve identified a suspect the police aren’t looking at,” I answered.

  The deep worry lines in Fee’s face relaxed. “Good.”

  “Please tell Ida to call Cuthie Cuthbertson and have him with her the next time she talks to the police.”

  Fee adjusted her thick glasses. “I will, Julia. Good luck. And hurry.”

  Chris chuckled as we resumed our walk home. “You’ve been busy. You’ll have to fill me in.”

  But somehow, when we got to the studio, he didn’t tell me his story and I didn’t tell him mine. There wasn’t much time for talking.

  CHAPTER 22

  First thing the next morning I took off for Portland. Maine’s largest city was only an hour away from Busman’s Harbor, though it seemed like a different world. Portland was a small city, to be sure, nothing like the Manhattan I’d left to return to Maine, but it had strong institutions, like museums and universities, and intimate neighborhoods, with shops, coffee houses, and bars. People went about on foot, connected to the sea and the cityscape.

  And Portland had a rush hour. I noticed the pile up in front of me on Route 295 with just enough time to pump my brakes and join the throng. I found a garage not far from Dunwitty, Moscone, Tyler and Saperstein’s offices and paid for parking for the first time in ages. Once I was on foot, I hunted along Middle Street for the building number. The clock was ticking. The receptionist had told me Mr. Tyler could only give me a few minutes and they were leaking away as I tried to find the building.

  At last, I spotted the numbers, rushed through the glass front doors and jumped into one of the elevators, mashing the button marked 3.

  The law firm looked like any other. Not floors and floors of lawyers like in New York, but a full, bustling office with cubicles in the center and offices ringing the outside.

  The pretty brunette receptionist I’d spoken to the day before led me to Mr. Tyler’s office immediately, practically cantering in her high heels so I had to fast walk to keep up. “He has to leave in ten minutes,” she breathed. “Hurry up.”

  Mr. Tyler’s office was traditionally decorated with mahogany furniture and glass-fronted barrister bookcases, a contrast to the sleek cube farm outside its door. The lawyer himself sat behind the desk, a tiny man who looked older than God. He extended a shaky, blue-veined hand. “Miss Snowden, I presume. I won’t get up.” He gestured to the leather chair opposite.

  “What brings you all the way from Busman’s Harbor on a lovely summer morning?” he asked. “If I were still fit enough to sail, at this time of year I’d be coming in your direction, not the other way around.”

  “I’m interested in a property that belongs to a trust your firm manages.” It wasn’t a lie. I was interested in the property, though not to buy.

  He pulled back his thin lips revealing teeth such a startling white they had to be implants. “Spencer Cottage.”

  “What can you tell me about it?” I asked.

  “As I’m sure you know or you wouldn’t be here, the property belongs to the Spencer Family Trust. It has a longtime tenant. The cottage hasn’t been updated in decades. I’ve been anticipating a buyer might turn up for some time, but I always thought it would be a developer. You’re not one, are you? A developer?”

  I shook my head. “What is the current status of the property? Do you know if the trustees or the beneficiaries have an interest in selling?”

  “I do not.” Mr. Tyler’s wispy hair brushed his collar. “I haven’t spoken to anyone connected with the property for years. The tenant pays rent, which goes into an account used to pay the property taxes, fees, yard work, and other necessities. The rental agency has someone open the house up in the spring when the tenant comes and shut it down in the fall right after she leaves. In the distant past, we might have sent any leftover money to the beneficiary of the trust. There hasn’t been any such money for decades. The property, unimproved as it is, yields no profit, but with its view, and its waterfront, the value of the land is high. That’s why I expected a developer.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, the property records at the town offices indicate the firm administering the trust is Herrickson and Carroll. How did it end up here?”

  “I don’t mind you asking in the least. I am the last living employee of Herrickson and Carroll. I worked there as an associate just out of law school. When Carroll died, Frank Herrickson soldiered on for another decade, but his heart wasn’t in it. There wasn’t enough business to keep an ambitious young lad such as myself happy. I signed up with Dunwitty and Moscone, as they were then. Not long after, Frank shut down for good and transferred his few remaining files to me. All of that business has been long since disposed of, except for the Spencer Family Trust.”

  “Have you ever met the beneficiary?”

  “Mr. Tyler, it’s time to go.” A young man wearing a suit and carrying a heavy briefcase appeared in the doorway.

  “On my way.” Tyler rose unsteadily from behind his desk and made his way cautiously across the room to a coat rack. He plucked a straw summer hat from the top and turned back to me. “I met the original beneficiaries several times years ago. Lovely couple, the Spencers. But they’ll be long dead by now. Their daughter has succeeded them. I haven’t looked at the trust document in a long, long time.”

  The beneficiary was a woman. That was encouraging. “My interest is actually in the beneficiary. I believe she might have inherited an estate.”

  Mr. Tyler paused on his way out the door. The young lawyer waiting for him shifted nervously from one foot to another. “You don’t say. What estate would that be?”

  “Frank’s estate. Can you tell me how I can contact her?”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “As I said, I haven’t looked at anything related to the Spencer family in years. Mrs. Benjamin, our trust department paralegal, takes care of it. I’ll introduce you on the way out.”

  Mrs. Benjamin turned out to be an imposing gray-haired woman with an air of ferocious competence. To my surprise, she stood up from her desk, went to a cabinet and took out a paper file. “One of the few left that’s not in the computer,” she explained.

  She opened the file on the center of the desk and flipped through a few loose pages. “I’ve been taking care of this trust since the day I started, more than thirty years ago. As Mr. Tyler no doubt explained, the only asset remaining is the cottage. It no longer throws off any profit. Every year I send an accounting and a tax document to the remaining beneficiary.”

  “I’d like to know who that is,” I
said.

  She nodded, still staring at the papers sitting on the open manila folder. “Back in the days when there was income, I sent the proceeds to an Eve and Arlen Spencer in Scarborough. Since they’ve passed on, I’ve carried on sending the documents to the same address. Let’s see. Elizabeth Anderson, 29 Gorham Road, Scarborough.”

  * * *

  As soon as I got out of the building, I glanced at my phone to see if I had time to drive the eight miles south to Scarborough and look around before heading north again to Busman’s Harbor. I didn’t. If I didn’t go home now, I was going to miss the boat, literally.

  I dialed Mom, who thank goodness picked up. “I’m in Portland. There’s some more work I want to do, but if I do it I’m going to miss the Jacquie II. I’m so sorry. I’ll call Chris and see if he can bring me out as soon as I get to the harbor.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Julia. We can manage without you. Everyone deserves a day off now and then.”

  “I had a day off, the day before yesterday, when it rained. I can make it back.”

  There was a long silence as I speed walked back to the garage where I’d left the Caprice. “Mom, are you there?”

  “Julia, are you in Portland because you’re helping Ida Fischer like you told me last night?”

  I moved into the shelter of a hotel entrance. “I’m not sure. I’m in Portland because of Bart Frick’s murder, but I’m not sure if anything I’m doing will actually help Mrs. Fischer. I’m convinced there’s more to the story, and for the first time, I feel like I’m on to something.”

  “Then I’d much rather you finished what you’re doing. It’s more important. I’ll close the gift shop during the meal and do the hosting. Everyone will pitch in. We’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll be on the dinner boat for sure.” I felt lousy about no-showing, especially since I was supposed to be the boss. But when Mrs. Benjamin had said the beneficiary of the Spencer Trust was named, ‘Elizabeth Anderson,’ my heart had skipped a beat. I couldn’t get so close and turn away, could I? “Okay, Mom. Thank you. Thank everyone for me.”

  A minute later the Caprice lumbered out onto Middle Street, the GPS on my phone set for 29 Gorham Road, Scarborough.

  When I got off the highway and followed Route 1, my hopes rose and fell like a roller coaster. Parts of the road were residential and plenty of the homes looked more than thirty years old, like the Spencers could have lived there. But long stretches were commercial, lined by stores and mini-malls. Whenever I passed a run of those, my emotions plummeted. I was playing hooky, which put even more pressure on. What if I was wasting that precious gift of time?

  When I pulled up to 29 Gorham Road, my worst fears were confirmed. There was a gleaming gas station and mini-mart with the number 29 over the door. I pulled into a parking space and sat for a moment, stymied. I decided I needed a bathroom and a coffee, so I pushed open my car’s heavy door and headed into the store.

  My business taken care of, I deflated again. The kid behind the counter looked sixteen at the max, unlikely to be helpful. Nevertheless, I tried.

  “When was this place built?” I asked.

  Blank look.

  “Was there a house here before? Do you remember?”

  Blank look.

  “Is there anyone around who’s maybe a little older?”

  At that point, his brain engaged. “Earl. He’s the owner.”

  “Where is Earl?”

  “In the back.” The kid pointed to a door beyond the restrooms.

  “Thanks.”

  I found Earl at a cluttered table wedged into a corner of a tiny office, muttering over some paperwork. I knocked lightly on the door frame, and then louder, trying to get his attention.

  When he did look up, he smiled. “How can I help you, young lady?”

  “Sorry to bother you. The clerk sent me back here.”

  “Need to return something?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. I was wondering how long the mini-mart’s been here and if there was a house here before it.”

  “You were, were you? And why were you wondering about that?”

  “I’m trying to find the former owners. Or the daughter of the former owners. I’m not sure. It’s all a little confusing.”

  He considered that for a moment. I wondered if he’d ask the obvious question: “Why?” But instead he said, “Then you’ve come to the right place. Come in, grab a stool.”

  I squeezed in through the door and sat on a dirty and very uncomfortable metal stool. It was in the opposite corner from Earl, but the room was so tiny our knees nearly touched.

  “Yes, indeed there was a house here. I bought it when I built this place fifteen years ago. It was already business zoned. There was the house, a garage with a lift, and a couple of gas pumps. I knocked them all down to build this.”

  “Do you remember the name of the former owner?”

  “’Course I do. Betty Anderson. She was going through a hard time, a divorce. She’d inherited the place from her parents and was happy to unload it.”

  Betty Anderson. Elizabeth Anderson. I was so close I could taste it. “You don’t happen to know where Betty moved, do you?”

  “After the divorce, she moved with her kid to a rental, but then she remarried. Last I heard she had a little house on Sunset Road. Her kid is grown. I heard Betty was widowed four or five years ago.”

  “Do you know her married name, the last name of her second husband?”

  “Reynolds, I think.”

  “Thank you so much. You’ve been so helpful.” He still hadn’t asked me why I was looking for her. A Maine form of not sticking your nose where it didn’t belong. “By the way, do you still get mail for her?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so, but I really wouldn’t know. All the mail for the business goes to a PO box. Anything that comes here gets thrown in the bin.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Armed with her current last name and the name of her street, I had no trouble finding Betty Reynolds’s address using my phone. It turned out to be only a couple miles away.

  The house was a cape, tidy but well worn, with a big glassed in sun porch on the front. The light blue paint on the house needed a scrape and a new coat. The shingles on the roof were cracked and jagged.

  I got out of the Caprice and stood on the side of the road, thinking about how to approach. Shrieks and laughter came from the back of the house, the sounds of children at play. I crossed the street and followed the sounds.

  A boy and a girl chased each other in the backyard. They were towheaded blondes, the boy older, maybe eight, and the girl, about six. Both were in bathing suits and he held a hose, which explained the screaming.

  He doused her and she ran, he gave chase until he hit the limits of the hose. She ran back and forth beyond the water’s reach. “Betcha can’t get me! Betcha can’t get me!” until neither of them could stand it any longer. Then she ran for the house as he ran after her.

  “Can I help you?” The voice was cold, a protective mama bear. I would have responded the same way if a stranger had come into Mom’s yard while Page and Vanessa played.

  I shaded my eyes from the sun and looked up at the figure on the back deck. “I’m Julia Snowden. I’m looking for Betty Reynolds.”

  “You’ve found her. What can I do for you?” The woman was in her mid-fifties, with wavy gray hair, blunt cut above her shoulders. She wore a bright pink T-shirt with a pink-and-blue madras pocket the matched her madras shorts. She held herself stiffly, squinting at me with striking dark blue eyes. She wasn’t happy to see me and I couldn’t blame her, given the way I’d stumbled into her yard. “Do you own a property on Rosehill Road in Busman’s Harbor?”

  It wasn’t what she’d expected me to say and it took her a few seconds to respond, but when she did there was no uncertainty in her answer. “I do not. I’m afraid you have the wrong person. Elizabeth Reynolds is a common name.”

  I didn’t think I had the wrong person. The trail had been faint
in places and broken in others, but it had led me to her door. The woman who hung over the deck was the right age to be the woman in the photograph. “It’s called the Spencer Cottage. Is that name perhaps familiar to you?”

  “Spencer is my maiden name. And we lived in Busman’s Harbor when I was young, before I started school. But that was a long time ago. I’m not sure my parents even owned the house we lived in back then.”

  “If they were Eve and Arlen Spencer, they were the original beneficiaries of a trust that still owns the house. And now, I think, you may be the remaining beneficiary.”

  “Betcha can’t get me! Betcha can’t get me! Betcha can’t get me!” The taunts were followed by shrieking, as before, but this time there was an “umph” and a thud, and then genuine crying. “Grammy! He pushed me.” The girl came toward the deck cradling an elbow that was grass-stained and bleeding.

  “I’ve told you kids a thousand times. Come in, I’ll clean it up.” She wrapped the girl in a towel, opened the screen door and turned to me. “You better come inside, too.”

  The girl, whose name was Samantha, was bandaged up and both kids were sent to put on dry clothes. Betty Reynolds returned from the bathroom and ushered me to a kitchen chair. The kitchen was clean and tidy, but the appliances were old, the cabinets painted wood, the floor and countertops linoleum. It was the comfortable home of someone caring and careful, who didn’t have a lot of extra money.

  She sat down, kitty-corner from me. “Let’s begin again. I’m Elizabeth Spencer Anderson Reynolds. My friends call me Betty.”

  “I’m Julia Morrow Snowden. My friends call me Julia.”

  We shook hands, and then Betty rose and pulled a large glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. “Lemonade?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Now start at the beginning.”

  Starting at the beginning was exactly what I did not want to do. Because starting at the beginning meant telling her about Herrickson House, and Lou, Frank, Bart Frick, the murder, and the possible inheritance. It was one thing to tell her about Spencer Cottage. It was another to dangle a multimillion-dollar estate in front of someone who lived modestly, especially because I wasn’t sure.