That’s what Dulcie wanted to do right now. Tune out everything else but her work. She turned to Cassandra. “I’m considering an exhibit of botanicals from around the world for my museum,” she said. “I’m glad to find an example of a woman artist that I might be able to include.”
Cassandra smiled. “As am I.” She put her hand gently on Dulcie’s arm. “You must let me know how you do with your work. I see great things in you Dr. Dulcinea.” She squeezed Dulcie’s arm gently as though she were a little child, then drifted off into the shadows of the next gallery.
Dulcie turned away from the final painting in the exhibit, pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped lightly down the carpeted stairs. She emerged onto the wide stone steps that fronted the building. Squinting in the bright light she searched through her bag for her sunglasses. Only after a few moments of rummaging did she realize that they were still on top of her head.
She slid them down then looked around, trying to decide what to do next. This trip to Bermuda had been a lark. No, it was actually an escape. Her cell phone had at least five unread text messages. Fortunately they had stopped once she left the US since she didn’t have international calling access. She did have email, however, and did not even want to check that.
Dulcie slowly descended the imposing steps. The late afternoon shadows were beginning to encroach on the street. Carefully looking in both directions several times — Bermuda traffic came from the opposite direction from what she normally expected — she crossed and made her way to the waterfront.
A ferry blasted its horn as it pulled away from the dock. She watched it for several minutes as it went across the harbor toward Salt Kettle. ‘Dan would love it here,’ she thought. Her brother was back in Maine running his business of giving tours around Casco Bay on the small yacht that he and Dulcie had bought. Dulcie could imagine him doing the same thing in Hamilton Harbor.
Bermuda was the closest place that she could think of where she could truly run away. Nova Scotia had been a possibility, but geographically it seemed too much like Maine for her. The flight to Bermuda from Boston had been under two hours, but when she arrived she felt as though she was half way around the world. The water was a brilliant aqua. The houses, painted soft pastel colors with white roofs, looked like cakes with fondant icing. To her ear everyone spoke with a gentle accent, somewhere between British and a Caribbean lilt. She had laughed to herself thinking how flat and ugly her voice must sound to them.
Her passport was due to expire in a few months. A moment of panic had set in after she bought the non-refundable ticket, but had forgotten to check her passport’s date. She had just made it in to the country under the pesky six-month rule. She had to remember to renew, just in case she needed to escape again.
There it was once more, that word: escape. Why did she need to escape? There really was nothing to escape from. She had never had a relationship with him. They had never really even been on a date. There was the one “thank you” dinner, but that was all. Yet she felt betrayed. Why?
Deep down, she knew why. Even though they had not been intimate by the usual definition, the fact that they worked together on two separate murder cases threw them together in a very intimate way. Dulcie tried to convince herself that they were simply working too closely. However, she could not deny that he had seemed to show more of an interest in her than was strictly professional.
But then, the bombshell. He was unavailable. Completely unavailable. He must have known it would affect her, or he would have mentioned it from the start. He must have known it did affect her, or he would not have seen any need to leave multiple text messages.
She was not going to let it bother her any more, however. She shook her head vigorously and walked on down the street. Nicholas Black would continue on the path of his life, and she would continue on hers. And hopefully those paths would not cross again.
#
Nicholas Black sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair and looked around the conference room of the law offices that his grandfather had founded. He had just finished signing papers. The lawyer handling his case, the droning Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire, walked in the room as Nick put down the pen. “Ah, good. Perfect timing,” he said in a nasally voice with pudgy lips that barely moved. “She’ll contest again probably, but this time she can’t stall any longer. We’ve got her.” He tapped Nick’s laptop with the eraser end of his pencil. The computer contained the critical piece of evidence, grounds for divorce that were irrefutable: adultery.
The first time that Nick had asked for a divorce, just after he had finished law school, she had laughed at him. The issue was money, of course. It had always been money. That’s why she had married him in the first place, although he had been completely unaware of the fact. Stupid of him, in retrospect. They had known each other since childhood, yet she had never shown any particular interest in him then.
She had managed to stall the divorce proceedings on several occasions. Not content with a standard alimony payment, she was simply holding out for more money. She knew that when he reached the age of thirty, only several months away at this point, he would receive a huge trust fund. If they divorced before then, she would get none of it. But by dragging everything on until his birthday, she would then be entitled to half. Prolonging everything had little impact on her life other than requiring her to maintain a low profile. It was all lawyers’ work.
Why had Nick married her? He sighed as Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire shuffled through the papers. Nick knew why. He was young. He was easily manipulated. He let his family rule his life. She was beautiful of course, which always affects the situation, especially for a relatively inexperienced college boy. She had also done everything in her power to entice him. That is, until the day after the wedding, which had taken place the day after his graduation from Harvard. That’s when it all began to change.
Nick had not recognized it immediately, but their ‘similar interests’ quickly began to fade away. He had always enjoyed museums. She now found them boring. He liked to sail. She suddenly hated how the wind snarled up her hair. He liked to go to his family’s quiet beach house and spend the evenings reading a good book. She now preferred to stay in Boston and go out at night with her friends.
When he mentioned his troubles to his parents, their response was decisive. “Make it work. Besides,” his father had said, “when you become a lawyer and join the firm, she’ll be an asset.” Nick didn’t want an asset. He wanted a friend. He wanted a companion. He wanted a wife.
He had been in law school for two years and was facing the bar exam. He had taken to closing the door of his study for hours so that he could review for it. In fact, he had not been studying. He had been doing nothing but stare at the walls and wonder how to get out of the mess that his life had become. As the day of the exam drew nearer, he knew that he was not ready. He also knew that he had never intended to take it in the first place.
His link to Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire had begun as a class project in law school. Nick had been researching a case and his father, now retired, had suggested Cavanaugh as a good source of information. Of course the younger lawyer could not refuse to help the son of a senior partner and grandson of the firm’s founder.
The relationship between Cavanaugh and Nick could not exactly have been termed a friendship. It was more of a mutual understanding. Cavanaugh was many things, but stupid was not one of them. He quickly realized that Nick’s questions did not exactly pertain to the case that he was studying. Cavanaugh knew that they were of a more personal nature. He sympathized with the young law student. Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire had been used for his money too, and had also experienced some difficulty extricating himself from his own situation.
Now Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire looked across the table at Nick. “Yep, you’ve got her this time. And not a moment too soon as you’re well aware.” The final word hummed through his nose. “I’ll get this through as fast as I can.”
Nick nodded. He would have smi
led, but he found no pleasure in any of it. He was tired, drained. “Thanks, Bob. You don’t know how much I appreciate this. I know it’s been tough, especially with my father not exactly supportive.”
Cavanaugh waived his hand quickly over the table, as if to clear away the invisible dust in the air. “He’s retired. The rest of us are in charge now. Besides, he doesn’t know what it’s like to get hosed. Or at least, I don’t think he knows.”
This time Nick did smile, although ruefully. “No, I don’t think he does.” His parents had always been on the same team, putting family honor and pride before anything else. He had heard many arguments behind closed doors, but before the rest of the world they were a united front. Personal happiness, individual happiness, was irrelevant.
Cavanaugh collected the papers together, tapped the edges on the table several times until they were perfectly aligned, then stood up. Nick did as well. He stuck out his hand and shook Cavanaugh’s awkwardly.
“I’ll let you know a court date. And it will be well before your birthday, you have my word,” Robert Cavanaugh, Esquire squawked through his nose. With that, he held the door open for Nick, who walked through it for what would be, hopefully, the last time.
#
Dulcie returned to her room at the Hamilton Princess Hotel. She usually liked to stay somewhere near a beach so that she could swim, but this was a different sort of excursion. For this trip she just wanted to ride the ferry around the harbor, stare at the palm trees waving over the ocean, and of course visit the Bermuda National Gallery, an easy walk from the hotel.
Truth be told though, the biggest draw of the Hamilton Princess for her was high tea, to which Dulcie had happily succumbed the day before. When she was in Bermuda she had to restrain herself from having high tea every single day, which she could have, easily. ‘Why don’t we do this in America?’ she had thought once again while eyeing the three-tiered plate stand. The waiter had carefully described all of the little sandwiches and treats, but Dulcie could not remember a single one. It didn’t matter. They were all so good. She’d attempted to appear ladylike as she devoured them all while sipping tea and reading a book.
Dulcie found herself smiling as she thought about that lovely hour devoted entirely to food and fiction. Now, reality had come screaming back. She stood in the middle of her room and eyed her laptop as though it was the enemy.
She did not want to open it. There would be emails. Too many emails. And not just from him either. She reached beyond it on the table and picked up the bottle of wine that she’d grabbed at the duty free shop after her arrival. Bordeaux. A label that she usually didn’t see in the States. She had spent too much on it and did not care. She had opened it the previous night, and it had not disappointed. Now she popped out the cork and searched around the room for a glass. Something that resembled a whiskey tumbler was in the bathroom with a little cardboard cover over it to ensure, somehow, that it was sparkling clean. Good enough.
She poured a glass of wine, took a deep breath, and opened her laptop. The messages began downloading. They kept downloading. Dulcie looked away, not wanting to see his name appear. She stood up and opened the door to the balcony.
With the gentle breeze fluttering the curtains, Dulcie at last turned to the computer. Oddly, there was only one message from Nicholas Black. It simply said:
Dulcie, I’ve been trying to get in touch via text. Just heard you were away. Hope all is well. I’d like to see you when you get back. –Nick
That was it? She had expected more. Should she reply? She sat back and sipped her wine. Then she noticed the series of emails from Rachel.
Rachel had been Dulcie’s assistant since Dulcie had become the director of the museum. Rachel had started out as a volunteer at the front desk but had proved her capabilities well. She had a way of being able to second-guess everything that Dulcie needed before she needed it. It was a natural fit, so when it was obvious that Dulcie needed an assistant, it was equally obvious who that person would be.
Now, however, it seemed that Rachel was in over her head. Dulcie started with the oldest message and worked her way up:
Visiting artist is here… not happy… needs larger place on ocean with north-facing studio… must have room for wife and sister as well… needs different brand of paint in museum studio, must order from France… will only work with maximum of five students for master classes… must have freshly brewed green tea from Ceylon…
“Oh my!” Dulcie said out loud. She immediately wrote back:
Rachel, hang in there. I’ll be back tomorrow and clear everything up. Sorry you’re stuck with this situation. I had no idea! Thanks for all your work so far. –Dulcie
Logan Dumbarton. Noted for his abstract oils of seascapes. At least, most art critics assumed they were seascapes, and Logan never denied it. His sister was his business manager and had initially contacted Dulcie with the idea for Logan to come as a visiting artist. The sister and Dulcie had emailed and telephoned over several months, and Dulcie had believed that all of the plans were in place, which was why she had left his initial arrival in Rachel’s capable hands.
For one brief moment Dulcie thought about calling Rachel. Then she decided against it. She would be back soon enough and perhaps most of the issues would resolve themselves. Dulcie did find it strange that there were so many concerns, though. The sister, Linda, had seemed perfectly capable, professional and reasonable. Yet she had never indicated that she would be coming as well, and certainly had never mentioned that her brother was bringing his wife. Or that he even had a wife. ‘That must be a new development,’ thought Dulcie. ‘I’m losing my touch. I used to know all the gossip about the big names.’
She closed the laptop, firmly deciding against any reply to Nick. She really didn’t have anything to say.
If you would like to read more of the Dulcie Chambers Museum Mysteries please visit the author’s website (kerryjcharles.com) for more information or request copies at your local bookstore or library. Ebook versions are also available from major suppliers online.
Reviews from thoughtful readers are always welcome on any website or media outlet.
Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry J Charles has worked as a researcher, writer, and editor for NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, the Smithsonian Institution, Harvard University and several major textbook publishers. She holds four degrees including a Master’s in Geospatial Engineering and a Master’s in Art History from Harvard University. She has carried out research in many of the world's art museums as a freelance writer and scholar.
A swimmer, scuba diver, golfer, and boating enthusiast, Charles enjoys seeing the world from above and below sea level as well as from the tee box. Her life experiences inspire her writing and she is always seeking out new travels and adventures. She returned to her roots in coastal Maine while writing the Dulcie Chambers Museum Mysteries.
From the Murky Deep Page 15