Death in Rough Water

by Francine Mathews

  “Not the woman. Aunt Jen. She wasn’t home when she said she was.”

  “You mean, she has no alibi. No one could say she’d been home. That’s slightly different.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I mean she wasn’t there. I went back, you see. Around nine o’clock. I left the house at seven, met some buddies, had burgers at the Atlantic Cafe, and ran out of money. They wanted to see the movie at the Dreamland and hit a couple of bars afterward. Nobody had any cash. So I went home.”

  “And your aunt wasn’t in bed with a headache,” Merry said, under­standing now.

  “The bed was unmade, like she’d been lying on it. I know, because I went up to her room. She kept f ifty bucks in her upper left-hand bureau drawer, and I f igured I’d put it back Monday when I could get to the bank. She took away my ATM card when I got arrested,” he added, by way of explanation.

  “She wasn’t somewhere else in the house?”

  “Her car was gone. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. Just took the money and went back to the Dreamland—the show was starting in twenty minutes. She was in bed when I got home, though. And later, when she was arrested and said she’d been there all the time, I wondered about it. But I wasn’t going to contradict her. It was too serious.”

  “It was, Josh,” Merry said. “Serious enough to put your uncle in jail.”

  The Baldwin house seemed deserted when Merry drove up the drive with Matt Bailey and Howie Seitz. Mindful of the Dundee expertise with guns, they all had the instinct to move cautiously. Jenny met them at the door before they had time to ring.

  “Where’s Tom?” she said, looking past them. “Surely you’ve released him by this time?”

  “Unfortunately not, Mrs. Baldwin,” Matt Bailey said. “He’s being f lown to Barnstable on multiple charges of arson, fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. Quite a list. But that’s not why we’re here.” He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. “Jenny Dundee Baldwin, I arrest you for the murder of Adelia Duarte. It is our duty to inform you of your rights. Patrolman Seitz?”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Howie said. “You have the right to obtain counsel and—”

  “Good heavens,” Jenny said, with an amused smile. “We’re not going through that nonsense again, are we? I heard it on Wednesday. You didn’t have a case then. You don’t have one now. Run along and f ind some­one else to bother. I have to pack for the Cape.”

  She made as if to close the front door in their faces.

  Despite herself, Merry was impressed. Dave Grizutto was right; Jenny Baldwin had everybody fooled. The private-school air and the conser­vative clothes, the unmade-up face and the plain brown hair. Unimpeach­able marks of a respectable pedigree, cloaking the sister of a Maf ia hit man. Money must be terribly important to her. And money had been her downfall.

  Merry set her foot on the doorstep and leaned into the house. “One question, Jenny. Why did you report the missing f ifty dollars? It was a small detail, but one you shouldn’t have missed.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The f ifty dollars. You said it was pilfered from your drawer. That was the word you used—pilfered. A word for a theft in the family, not a burglary. Did you know Josh had taken it?”

  “Josh had nothing to do with it. The money was stolen when the brace­let disappeared.”

  “Actually, Josh says he took it the night Adelia Duarte was murdered. He was out with friends and returned to your house in search of cash before the Dreamland’s second show, which was around nine-f ifteen that night. Only you weren’t in your bedroom when he pilfered your drawer. You were committing murder.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I know. The whole thing is absurd. You must have discovered the money was gone a few days later, and wondered who’d taken it. Tom? Or Josh? If you were going to report the theft of the bracelet as you planned—to begin the process of incriminating your husband—you couldn’t ignore the f ifty dollars.”

  Merry stepped into the front hallway and, disconcerted, Jenny edged backward.

  “You were afraid Tom or Josh might mention taking it, and say they’d seen the bracelet in your drawer when they did. You couldn’t be sure. So you thought you had to admit you’d discovered the money’s loss up front. But it was a detail that didn’t f it with the story we were supposed to believe—that Tom murdered Del and framed you. We were supposed to think he’d taken the bracelet for that purpose, and left it near her body.

  “But f ifty dollars? Why would Tom pocket your f ifty dollars? It was a detail that kept surfacing in the back of my brain.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jenny said.

  “Your plan. You came down with a convenient migraine the night you knew Tom had a party and Josh was supposed to be out all evening. You went to Del’s house, wearing Tom’s beige linen pants and silk knit sweater—he’s only an inch or so taller than you, isn’t he? Heels would take care of that. And Del let you in.”

  “I was in bed.”

  “Not at nine o’clock. Josh will swear to the fact that the house was empty and your car was gone from the garage.”

  Howie edged into the hall with a his phone in his hand. He liked to take notes on it. Matt Bailey was right behind him.

  Jenny surveyed the three of them. Then she led them into her cool, airy living room with the view of the harbor beyond the windows. She sank down on the sofa. “I hadn’t f igured on Josh. I thought I’d worked every­thing out, but there was bound to be something I missed. I knew it—I just couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The past twenty-four hours have been the worst.”

  “With Tom exactly where you wanted him.”

  “Yes. I was so close.”

  “You hate him that much?”

  Emotion rippled over Jenny’s face. “He brought it on himself,” she said. “The way he’s treated me.”

  “What was it?” Merry said. “The affair with Del, or the fear of losing the money?”

  Jenny took her time answering. “Neither, really. He’d done the un­forgivable—the unforgivable—thing. He’d given her the child he could never give me. Or never would give me. He didn’t know what he’d done—I realize that. But I knew, from the moment I saw that child at Joe Duarte’s funeral. She looked like Tom’s baby pictures, every inch of her. She had the same bowlegged gait, and his mother’s extraordinary red hair. And he didn’t see it. I thought the entire room must know, must be looking and comparing and taking notes. I wanted that woman off the island, and her brat with her.”

  “And so you gave her a hundred thousand dollars to leave.”

  “You knew about that? I suppose you know about everything.” Jenny’s eyes dropped to her tanned f ingers, obses­sively smoothing a pleat in her cotton skirt. “She wouldn’t keep it. She told me she’d decided to stay here. I’m afraid that made me—very angry. And so I had to do something.”

  “Did you know she kept a harpoon in her house?”

  “No. I planned to spike her drink. But we never got around to having one. She didn’t like scotch. I lost my temper—it’s always been a tad uncontrollable—and she picked up the harpoon. I think she thought I’d be afraid of her. I wasn’t.”

  “There were two types of blood on the f loor,” Merry said.

  Jenny raised the long sleeve of her blouse and revealed a neat ban­dage on one arm. “I had a bit of trouble taking the harpoon away from her. I grabbed the shaft and wrestled her for it. I’m much stronger than I look, you know.”

  “You look strong enough.”

  She studied the bandage intently. “My, that dart was sharp,” she said. “I had no trouble at all shoving it between her ribs.”

  “And then you left the scotch bottle with your f ingerprints on it, and the pieces of copper chain.”

  “Well, that was the plan.”


  “Why, Jenny?” Merry said. “Why did you have to kill Del? Did the affair matter so much?’’

  “I didn’t expect it to,” she said, sounding surprised. “Tom told me about it after the girl left Nantucket—but of course, he never thought the baby was his. He thought she’d two-timed him, and it hurt his pride. That’s why he made a clean breast of it to me. He felt like an ass. Wanted to make a new start. But I never could.”

  “Forgive him?”

  “Oh, I suppose I forgave him—in the incessant way of married women. I forgave him. I just couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t trust him again. Every time he was out late, or missed an appointment, I’d wonder who it was this time. Until eventually I stopped caring. Or thought I did.”

  “And then you saw the baby.”

  “Yes. Tom would have thrown me out like a torn shirt if he realized Del had been faithful and the child was his. There’d be nothing to keep him, then. And suddenly I realized I didn’t really want Tom anymore. What I really wanted was revenge. I wanted the money, the house, and Tom’s life ruined. And I wanted to get away with it.”

  “You killed Del out of self ishness.”

  “She didn’t matter very much.”

  “She mattered to me,” Merry said softly.

  “I’d like to say I’m sorry,” Jenny said, folding and refolding her pleat with deft f ingers, “but I haven’t felt that way in weeks. I’ve felt—powerful. I’ve felt like I had a purpose. I could show the world that I was a hapless victim, and all the time it was Tom who would pay. I knew the shell game he’d been playing with my money, the boats that sank, the plans for the pier. He’d used my brother. No one would believe he’d balk at a simple killing. And framing me was entirely plausible.”

  “Just one thing,” Merry said. “Why did you take Sara’s birth certif i­cate?”

  “I wanted him to die not knowing,” Jenny said. “I never wanted him to have the satisfaction of knowing.” She lifted one wrist to rebutton the cuff of her blouse, hiding the bandage, and then stood up. “He knows now, I suppose.”

  “He does.”

  Jenny Baldwin reached for her lightship purse and placed it f irmly over one arm. “Then I’ve failed all around. Well, gentlemen,” she said, turning to Matt Bailey and Howie Seitz, “ If we hurry, the sheriff can take us both on the same plane.”

  Chapter 29

  Sunday was Rebecca’s Quaker day of rest, and she was nowhere in sight when Merry pulled up before Peter Mason’s door. Rafe, she knew, was at the Greengage; she’d seen the red Rover parked on Quince street, with its distinctive CRNBERY vanity plate. Peter was completely alone. She reminded herself to leave as quickly as possible.

  He was in the kitchen at the back of the house, whistling cheerfully over the sound of running water, and her knock went unheeded. So she walked around to the deck and tapped on the screen, watching as his head jerked up in involuntary surprise, his eyes narrowing against the glare beyond the door.

  “It’s me,” she said. “I came to tell you it’s all over.”

  He shut off the water and stared at her, hands dripping. “Come in and talk to me,” he said.

  She pushed open the screen and walked into the kitchen. Set her bag down on the table. Pulled out a chair and slumped into it.

  “What happened?”

  “Do I have to go over it?”

  “Eventually. I can’t stand the suspense forever.”

  Whether he was discussing Del’s murder or something else, she didn’t like to think. She brushed her blonde hair back from her eyes and looked at him.

  “I want to thank you for sending me to see Lisa Davis. Talking to her unlocked the whole case.”

  “She called me after you’d stopped by. Apparently you made her feel a lot better.”

  “Only temporarily, I’m afraid. Mitch torched the Town Pier, Peter. And then was shot by Tom Baldwin.”

  “By Tom?”

  “Well, his brother-in-law, actually. It’s too complicated.”

  “You need a gin and tonic.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Late enough,” he said f irmly. He fetched a lime and a knife, f illing the room with the stark freshness of citrus. “Let’s talk about murder some other time, okay? You need a break. I propose dinner à deux. Meaning, we both pitch in and scrounge something to eat.”

  “Is it dinnertime?”

  “It could be. A summer evening with nothing ahead of us. Everything is open to negotiation.”

  “I’m so tired, Peter,” Merry said, putting her head in her hands. “I haven’t had time to realize how drained I am. All I can think of is Del. I thought at f irst she’d died because she’d stumbled on something important about Joe’s death. But he probably did just fall overboard; sometimes the obvious is what happened. Instead she was killed because Jenny Bald­win was growing old and childless and unhappy in her marriage, and Del had youth and the love of Jenny’s husband, and a child he never thought he’d create. Del died because she had so many reasons to live.”

  “This is going to take some telling,” Peter said. “Here’s your drink.”

  He listened without a word while Merry rambled through the history of SeaCon and Oceanside, Sara’s birth certif icate and Jenny Baldwin’s brother. When she had done, she looked up and saw the shadows length­ening across the polished wood of his kitchen f loor, and Peter’s face very still.

  “A long story,” she concluded, “and none of it important, really.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve solved several crimes at once.”

  “I’m not happy about it. I just feel completely alone. When I was little—probably about six—my father was called to a house on Milk Street where a woman had just died of cancer. She was lying in her bed, with a sheet over her face, and her little girl was crying in the room across the hall. They were all by themselves. Dad brought Del back to our house and put her to bed with me, and went off to f ind Joe drinking himself sick in the pilothouse of his boat.

  “He could have locked Joe in a cell, but he didn’t. Instead he slapped him into shape, got him back to our kitchen, and poured coffee down his throat until three o’clock in the morning. And when my mother committed suicide, Joe Duarte was right there in our kitchen, with Del, to pour coffee down my father’s.”

  Peter reached for her hand, held it.

  “Who’ll pour coffee for me, Peter?” Merry said. “In the middle of the night, when disaster strikes again?”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t have you go to anyone else.”

  The intensity behind the words brought her eyes up to his. She saw the unguarded feeling written on his face, and the decision he made not to take it back. He held her gaze an instant, and her stomach turned over. Oh God, she thought. Oh God, no.

  Peter rose from his chair and knelt in front of her, her legs against his chest, his hands taking hers. He was alert and passive at once, the way an animal holds itself before springing, all the possibility of power and release poised in a muscular stillness. He said nothing, but the space between them f illed with a static current, singing, alive, dangerously binding. Merry leaned away, f ighting something akin to terror at his touch.

  And then she took refuge in indifference. She could break this mood—reach for her purse, comment on the time, say something f lip about murder making strange bedfellows. She opened her mouth to do it.

  He saw the sardonic expression gathering, and laid his foref inger gently, inevitably, against her lips.

  “You could break this mood in a minute,” he said. “I know. And leave me jagged as a broken glass. You could do that. Merry, Merry—don’t. It isn’t necessary.”

  The touch of his f inger on her mouth was like a cool seal to a pact struck long ago. She closed her eyes and reached for his palm with both hand
s, burying her face in it. She’d backed away from Peter once before, in the rose garden of a murderer, when he’d handed her a f lower com­plete with thorns—a gesture implicit with the intensity and pain of of­fering himself. She had been afraid of him then, an instinctive fear born of ignorance. She knew him far better now, and knew why she was afraid. She wanted him more than anything or anyone she had ever known in her life. Peter Mason had the power to strip her of everything she was; the power to take her over, body and soul.

  He lifted her face, a hand framing either cheekbone, his long f ingers tangled in her hair. The gray eyes were burning now. “There’s my girl,” he said.

  He took her in the shadowed half-light of his room under the eaves, the early June moonlight throwing his prof ile against the sloping wings of the ceiling, the sharp planes of his face picked out in black and white. He took her slowly, spinning out the midnight, making something holy from the ritual of shed clothing. He ran a f inger like a burning match down the curve of silk covering her breast, then tore at the buttons of her blouse with his teeth until they fell in a rainy patter on the f loor. He curled a hip under his palm, found the crease behind her knee with its faint dampness of sweat, dipped his mouth in the hollows of her collarbone.

  Merry saw him outlined against the rafters, dark as a thunderhead hovering over her body, the power of his frame leashed by a terrible gentleness; it occurred to her that he was afraid that he might break her in half. She fought him over this—wanting to tear him loose, to force him into the tide that was sweeping the length of her body. She was a small boat, a wooden dinghy, the kind that f ishermen used to launch in the surf years ago, meeting the sea just before its crest, knowing survival meant going through the wave, not foundering in it. She tried to tell him of the sea, of the wave curling in whiteness over her head, but her mouth was locked in his and he had taken her breath. She clung to him, to the pull and thrust of the current, feeling herself spiraling in a whirl­pool, drowning him with her. His f ingers found her hair again, arching her neck back and her mouth up to his; she opened her eyes and saw his staring into her own, gray as the Atlantic under rain.