A Dagger Cuts Deep

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Her nod was tentative. Lori’s shyness was likely due to her mother’s tendency of popping in and out of her life so frequently and of course the last time Charity had stormed out of the apartment, she’d never returned. Charity was gone forever now.

  Deidre hadn’t yet garnered the nerve to tell Lori, and guilt wracked her.

  “I’ll meet you at the dock. Maybe as early as tomorrow.” Deidre pulled her into a tight hug. “I shall see you within a couple of days, darling. I promise.”

  The drive to Bridgeport took an hour and a half from Queens, while the ferry trip to Montgomery Island was a mere thirty minutes. It seemed much shorter in the summer air compared to the last time Deidre had made the crossing in the icy winds of March four years ago.

  Deidre stood on the bridge and relished the warm air caressing her skin. As the ferry made its way into the island dock, a slight prickling raised the hair on her neck. She glanced around but saw only the back of a tall man with thinning hair striding away. He posed no threat. There was no one else on the bridge and she turned her gaze back out to the water and waited until the boat was fully docked before making her way to the exit.

  She concentrated on finding her bed and breakfast, cleverly named Island Inn. She’d been fortunate to secure the last available room, as apparently a summer fair was scheduled in another week. If anything, it bought her time. Very little time. The money Charity had received from Mr. Montgomery was almost depleted. Deidre was on summer break from her teaching job for another two weeks, at which time she would need to report back to work.

  Upon disembarking the Bridgeport Ferry to Montgomery Island, Deidre was pleasantly surprised by the quaintness of the town. She followed the foot traffic and stopped at the first intersection. The cross street sign read Church Road. Glancing to the north—her left—she spotted a banner that read 20th Annual Arts Fair – July 14th – 23rd. It stretched above the street that marked a supposed entrance to the fair, further evidenced by tents being erected for booths. To the south—her right—and not a block off the main thoroughfare, she saw the Island Inn on the other side of the street. She stepped off the curb.

  A newer model red sports car screeched to a stop just short of hitting her. Deidre hopped back up onto the walk, her suitcase bounding to the ground. Her hand flew to her chest, her heart pounding furiously. All she could think about was not fulfilling her promise to Lori to see her. The driver glared at Deidre beneath his newsboy cap through black spectacles. After a harsh glare, he took off.

  Deidre hauled in a couple of deep breaths before she could force herself to step back into the crosswalk. By the time she reached the other side of the street, her pulse had leveled out and she hurried in the direction of the inn. For a second, she regretted having left her own car for Mrs. Phillips and Lori. By the time she lugged her suitcase to the Inn, she was perspiring profusely.

  “I have a reservation,” she told the pimply-faced desk clerk in a breathless huff.

  He was young and likely had never seen her sister. Most times she considered it fortunate that she and Charity had been identical twins. She wasn’t so sure, this was one of those times. As children, Charity had been the twin who bounded from one scrape into another, her moods ranging in great highs and infinite lows. Her runaways were notorious and frequent, and over time, she often disappeared in the summers only to be found working on Montgomery Island.

  “Here it is, Miss Spence.”

  “Mrs.,” she corrected. She almost added that she was a widow but that was a sure sign of a person fabricating. The less information, the more believable.

  “Er, yeah. Sorry.”

  She signed the registration.

  “We’re fully booked after tomorrow, ma’am. You’ll have to check out.”

  Deidre grimaced and just as quickly wiped the frown away. “Do you know of anywhere else to stay in town?”

  “’Fraid not. Not with the Annual Arts Fair beginning and all.”

  “Um, is there a taxi around?”

  He looked at her as if she were the town clown and laughed. “This ain’t the city, ma’am.”

  She gave a wry smile. “No. I guess not.” She accepted the proffered key.

  “You’re in room thirteen.” Like that wasn’t an omen. “It’s at the end of the building.

  “Any chance there is someone to assist me with my bag?”

  “’Fraid not,” he said again.

  “Room service?”

  He opened his mouth and she spoke in unison with him, “’Fraid not…”

  “You might try the Cobblestone Café or the Tavern Grill. The inn sits proudly between the two,” he said.

  With a sharp nod, Deidre heaved up her bag and went out the door to hunt down room thirteen.

  She did not bother unpacking as she had only the one night. One night. To locate another place to stay, or if luck was with her, corner Jackson Montgomery and get him to confess murdering Charity. That was as likely as finding another place to stay. There was always the option of staying at one of the coastal motels in Bridgeport.

  Her stomach rumbled. But eating at the tavern had no appeal as it brought back the other embarrassing memory she’d last pulled the stunt of letting someone believe she was Charity.

  It was four years ago. Just after Charity had shown up on Deidre’s doorstep with Lori. Deidre had begged her twin to contact Jackson; tell him he was Lori’s father, but in typical Charity fashion, she’d staunchly refused.

  On a whim one Saturday not long after, Deidre had taken it upon herself to catch the ferry over to Montgomery Island to speak to the man herself. She did her best to shut out the memory to no avail.

  Charity’s ex-husband had shown all the signs of an over-indulged blue blood, having managed to drink himself under the table. And before Deidre could escape, things had quickly escalated out of control.

  “You look good with dark hair, Charity.” His words were slurred around the silver spoon stuck in his mouth. She’d fooled him so completely that he grabbed her by the upper arms and kissed her as no one else had ever dared. Then he shoved her back and pushed a hand through his hair as if stunned by his own reaction. “Get away from me” he growled. “I-I have no use for you. You repulse me.”

  Deidre’s lips tingled, jarring her to the present. His words pricked at her every insecurity. She and Charity might have been identical twins, but their similarities were strictly physical, except for their hair color. Deidre wasn’t bold or brave. She’d always stood in the shadow of her sister’s self-confidence and impulsive nature.

  It was that small stutter that stayed with Deidre all these years; that single incident that made her ashamed.

  Charity may have been right about Jackson, but Deidre had seen something else. A… vulnerability? What had she been thinking to come to this island? To confront him? This wasn’t like her at all. Charity is dead.

  Deidre steeled her spine. This wasn’t about a kiss. This was about the murder of her sister.

  Cobblestone café it was then.

  3

  Jackson followed Wyn up the steps to the island’s small and only church. The inside was dark, medieval. As they entered the sanctuary, a stench hit him with the force of a cudgel. Death, apparently, had its own particular fragrance within closed areas. This was Jackson’s first up close acquaintance, despite his parents’ less-than-natural passings.

  “Ah, shit,” Wyn said.

  Jackson’s exact sentiments. “Only this morning, I was thinking there was nothing to do on this damned island,” Jackson said. “And now we’re tripping over dead bodies like flies.”

  “Not exactly good for drawing in tourists," Wyn said.

  Reverend Knox, even as a living soul, had resembled a walking cadaver. Now clearly dead, he didn’t look much different than he had when he was alive. The smell was the biggest difference for the man. The crime scene was gruesome, blood everywhere. Knox lay draped against across the pulpit with a dagger protrudi
ng from his chest.

  “First my mother, then my father.”

  Wyn knelt beside the man and pressed to fingers to his neck. “Yes, but completely different methods,” Wyn said. “Gads, stabbing a person is about as personal as it gets.”

  Jackson had to swallow before he could get any words out. “Who the devil would want to kill a preacher?”

  But then, he’d thought the same thing about his mother who’d been poisoned the year before.

  “Ah, this is where you get to earn your pay, my friend.”

  Wyn’s unsubtle reminder jerked Jackson to his new role as private investigator. An occasional one, perhaps, or that had been the expectation. Someone else, apparently, had other plans.

  Jackson moved around the pulpit, being careful where he stepped. “Seems odd.”

  “What?”

  “Not a single death, even the elderly, who tend to end up at the hospital in Bridgeport, since Penelope’s demise in 1924, and now...” He shook his head and surveyed his surroundings.

  The church resembled what he imagined churches would have been like during the ancient Christian crusades. Two circular areas on each side of the sanctuary just below the pulpit hosted the choirs’ sections. He poked about the one on the left. Jackson had been in this place hundreds of times over the years and had never before noticed the door at the back. He strolled over, turned the knob, and pushed gently.

  Nothing. The door was blocked.

  He strolled across the sanctuary to the other side and did the same, opening the door to a gulping sob.

  He moved gingerly to look inside. “Ruth?”

  Ruth Knox was the reverend’s younger daughter, his only daughter since Penelope’s death. She sat huddled in a corner, shaking violently. “Is it over?” Her voice had a quality that sounded like a five-year-old’s. She wasn’t what one would consider pretty, but she was… sweet. She was quiet and helpful and she certainly didn’t deserve being exposed to the violence of her father’s murder.

  Jackson hurried over to her, knelt beside her, and wrapped his arm around her too-thin shoulders. He gently pulled her to her feet, and lead her to a nearby bench. Her hands were cold as ice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “No. No, I-I don’t know. I just ran. I-I had to hide.” With every word, her voice grew more shrill, her eyes more wild. Her breathing, so erratic, Jackson worried she would faint.

  He glanced up at the door. Wyn had joined them. “I know it’s difficult, Ruth. But you need to tell me what you saw,” he said gently.

  She gulped in shallow rapid breaths. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Take it slow, Ruth.” Jackson squeezed her hand. “That’s it. Hold your breath a moment. Let it out. Slowly now.” He continued to coach her until her gulping sobs subsided into shaky breaths. “We have some questions for you, Ruth. Don’t worry, we’ll take it step by step.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you hear?

  “Nothing.”

  “Was it more than one person?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you hear voices? More than one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they sneak in or crash through the doors?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ruth had nothing much to offer. Her mental state was useless. Understandably so. The assailant or assailants had been quiet and methodical.

  Wyn stood by through the entire interview, observing.

  Ruth’s rendition of events was laid out in stoic, matter-of-fact statements which left them with absolutely nothing.

  Wyn shifted his stance and his boots scuffed against the wood floor, yanking Ruth from her trance. Her eyes rapidly morphed back into the wild panic they had shown at the beginning.

  She shivered uncontrollably. “I-I can’t come back here. Please don’t make me go back to the house. I can never go back. Where am I to go?” Her words ended in a whispered panic.

  Wyn crept forward. “Don’t fret, Ruth, we’ll call, Jo,” he said gently. “You’ll stay at the manor house with us. Come with me, Ruth. Everything will turn out all right. We’ll find out who did this.” He turned to Jackson. “Check out the office. There may be something there to tell us why—what—” He glanced helplessly at Ruth.

  Jackson took in Ruth’s chalky expression. “Drive her up to the manor house. I’ll look around.”

  “Come on, Ruth. You’re safe now.” Wyn’s voice echoed against the wood as he led Ruth from the old building.

  Jackson shook his head and found his way to the office. It was a wreck. Papers were strewn haphazardly about, as if stacks had been roughly shoved off the desk. Books were upturned and ripped. A coffee cup had been shattered against a wall; its contents now staining the floor. It was impossible to tell if anything was missing or had been stolen.

  Jackson couldn’t imagine Knox being considered the best minister unless the requirements included condescension. And there was no telling what sort of father he was. Ruth and Penelope, from all appearances, were the man’s opposites in personality.

  One thing was disturbingly clear: Knox’s death marked the fourth murder on the island within the past year.

  4

  Simon Guthrie, Jr., mostly referred to as Junior, was shaking by the time he drove his red 1938 57SC Bugatti through the gated drive of his family’s summer home on Montgomery Island. How dare that little piece of baggage show up on the island after having the gall to blackmail him. Fury surged through Junior. She should be dead!

  Charity Spence with brown hair was laughable. That disguise wouldn’t fool a blind man.

  He had only one question for her before he made her pay for thinking she could get away with blackmailing him. Had she brought the proof of his past deeds with her? Junior squeezed his hand into a fist and pounded it against the leather steering wheel. His inclination was to find her again right that second and shake the information from her. He forced himself to breathe in through his nose and release the air slowly through his mouth. It took several breaths for his heart to slow to a halfway palpable rhythm.

  This was a small island. She wouldn’t be able to hide for long. Charity Spence didn’t have many friends. Not in Stone City. Junior was a powerful man in his own right; his father even more so. He could make sure she had even fewer friends before he was done with her.

  Make no mistake for attempting to blackmail him.

  5

  Deidre went to the vanity, smoothed back the free strands of hair and freshened her lipstick. She picked up her bucket hat and angled it slightly to cover her face. No telling how many people remembered Charity, and Deidre was pretty sure the impression her sister had left behind went from one end of the spectrum to the other.

  Outside the door, she checked the lock carefully, then—lifting her chin—turned in the direction of Main Street to find the Cobblestone Café.

  Once she reached Main Street, it was a short uphill trek to a glass-encased shop. A man’s footsteps strode up quickly behind her, and she tarried out of his way. The café was only a couple of doors away, and through bright painted letters on the windows, she saw red vinyl-upholstered benches and chrome-trimmed tables. It looked clean and cheerful. The man stood at the door, holding the door. Deidre hurried her steps, and averting her face, slipped through.

  Jackson? She could hardly turn away without bringing attention to herself. She thanked him with a small murmur and entered. Luck was with her. A couple rose from a table near the center of the small dining room. The only table that appeared available. Deidre moved to stake her claim. A young kid holding a tub came over to clear the table. She smiled her thanks and sat, making certain her back was to the man she believed was Jackson, taking no chances.

  A harried young woman in her mid-twenties dashed through a stainless steel swinging door with a round window. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face, curls secured back by her white ca
p and a pencil behind her ear. Her drawn-on brows were perfect and her smile genuine. “Sit anywhere, hon. I’ll be with you in a minute. Coffee?”

  “Tea, if you have it.”

  A few minutes later, a tall glass landed in front of her. “I’m Melinda.” She snatched the pencil and took up her pad. “Now, what can I get you?”

  “A place to live.” Deidre winced. Oh, lord. “Sorry. Melinda, is it? I just got into town and I only have my room at the Island Inn for one night.”

  “Yeah, the whole town is booked tight as a drum with the Arts Fair and the summer residents flocking in.” She looked up from her order pad.

  Deidre met her widened-eyes.

  “You look remarkably like someone, uh, I’ve seen before.”

  Panic fluttered through Deidre. “Oh?” She spoke softly, hoping no one would pay close attention to their exchange.

  Melinda’s gaze took on a shrewd glint, narrowing on Deidre. “There might be one place,” she said. “It would be temporary. But it might do for a couple of weeks, I imagine.”

  Hope soared through Deidre. “That would be a god send,” she said in a rush.

  ~~~

  Jackson’s afternoon had been spent checking around the pulpit and other hidden nooks. He also studied footprints surrounding the church, of which there were aplenty. Since the discovery of the reverend’s death, news had spread throughout the town like wildfire on dry kindling. Half the townsfolk had traipsed in and out around the church over the past two days. To make matters worse, summer residents now flooded the island, and more would be streaming in once the arts fair opened.

  The shops were keeping later hours to accommodate the increased population, and more people than he could count wandered the streets. He’d opted for eating at the Cobblestone and called Esther from the sheriff’s office to let her know he wouldn’t be making dinner at the manor house and found himself stuck at the counter. Melinda was rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off.