Murder on the Cliff

by Stefanie Matteson

“It’s an abandoned carriage house at Brenton Point.”

  “One more. What about Sachuest Point?”

  “A wildlife sanctuary in Middletown, near Second Beach.”

  “Is there an observation deck there?”

  “Yes, for the bird watchers. Now it’s my turn to ask questions,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  “I think those are the places for the money drops. Have you got the classified section of the Providence Sunday Journal there?”

  “I think so. I’ll look.” He returned in a minute. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

  “It’s on the first page,” Charlotte said. “Number 109. ‘Personal Notices.’ At the bottom of the column.” She waited while he looked.

  “I see what you mean,” he said finally. “They’re all isolated spots.”

  “I just came from the boat broker. Billy put a ten percent deposit on Bastet this morning. The asking price is seven hundred and fifty thousand. He’s going to pay the rest in cash. If this notice is what I think it is, he’s due to pick up the second installment from Okichi-mago’s murderer tonight at The Bells. I think we should plan on crashing the party. What do you think?” She could just imagine the gleeful smile on Lew’s long, narrow face.

  “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  They were driving along Ocean Drive, the winding eight-mile drive along the wild, rocky southern coast of the island. It was one of Charlotte’s favorite drives in the world: jagged rocks, sheltered sea coves, and sweet, sandy beaches on one side; lily-covered inland ponds, wild roses and honeysuckle, and marshes filled with tall, waving grasses on the other, all swirling in the soft, shimmery gold mist—part fog, part sea air—that was the distinctive feature of the local atmosphere. On the ocean side of the road, there were occasional glimpses of gabled stone mansions on rocky outcroppings, or rolling lawns and colorful flower beds hidden behind neatly clipped privet hedges or elegant stone walls. Out on the sparkling sea, large and small sailboats plied their way in and out of the east passage to Narragansett Bay. Past the cottages and beaches, the area opened up into Brenton Point State Park, a ninety-acre nature preserve at the tip of the island, which had once been a private estate. The park was a favorite destination of day-trippers; families from nearby Providence and Fall River were picnicking on the grass, fishing from the rocks, flying kites, and playing soccer.

  Charlotte and Lew were there to check out The Bells, the burned-out shell of a once-elegant old carriage house that took its name from its bell tower. The ruined carriage house was all that was left of the old estate, which had long ago been demolished. Though it was located only a hundred feet or so from the park administration building, they would never have found it had Lew not known where it was. The entire area was overgrown with scrub brush: a dense thicket of wild roses, tangled vines, and stunted trees. They reached it via a narrow, winding path that had been mowed through the undergrowth.

  “It must have been beautiful,” said Charlotte as the ruined carriage house came into view. Despite the grass growing on the steeply pitched slate roof and the gaping black holes where the windows had been, one still had a sense of what it once had been like: the lovely old stonework, the tall, stately brick chimneys, the walled entrance courtyard.

  “Not since I can remember,” said Lew. “I used to come here as a kid. Make a campfire, drink beer, yell at the moon: all the things that kids do to raise cain.” He smiled. “I haven’t been here in probably twenty-five years. Last time I can remember was a Newport Folk Festival in the sixties. The kids from out of town used to camp out here.” He looked around. “It hasn’t changed much.”

  From the courtyard, they entered through one of the carriage bays. Inside, it was a different story: despite the box stalls for the horses, it looked more like an abandoned subway tunnel than a carriage house: the floor was heaped with broken glass and rubble. Beer cans and bottles were piled up in the corners, and graffiti covered the walls. A sign warned trespassers to keep out.

  “So,” said Charlotte, her voice echoing in the big, empty space, “where’s our boy going to wait for his mark? That is, if he gets here first. He might decide to wait until the murderer leaves before picking up the money.”

  “I would guess upstairs,” Lew replied. He led her over to a staircase in a corner, which led to a second-story loft.

  Charlotte followed him up the stairs.

  “He could see everything from here,” said Lew as they reached the top. He pointed to one of the dormer windows: “Out to the courtyard”—then he pointed to one of the holes in the floor—“as well as down to the first floor. Plus, he couldn’t be seen here himself. He would want to remain anonymous. He wouldn’t want to take the risk that the murderer would kill him.”

  Kill him! Bells went off in Charlotte’s head. “Lew! Remember when we were speculating that Shawn might have been murdered because he saw something he didn’t know he’d seen. What if what he saw was the murderer? The murderer also sees Shawn, but doesn’t think that Shawn has seen him. Then he gets a demand for money from an anonymous blackmailer.”

  Lew picked up the thread of her thoughts. “The murderer concludes that Shawn is the blackmailer and kills him—or has him killed—to avoid having to pay the blackmail money as well as to keep Shawn from going to the authorities with what he knows, or what the murderer thinks he knows.”

  As she gazed out at the courtyard, Charlotte examined the theory for flaws and chips, turning it over in her mind as if it were a piece of porcelain that she wanted to buy. But it was perfect: no flaws, no chips, no faded spots.

  “It’s a good theory,” said Lew. “A very good theory.”

  But as Charlotte turned it over in her mind again, she turned up not just a flaw, but a gigantic crack. “Damn, it doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “If the murderer thought he’d done away with the blackmailer—namely Shawn—then why did he show up with the first installment of the money at Purgatory last night. Which he must have done, otherwise how would Billy have gotten the money to make the deposit on the boat this morning?”

  Lew stroked his mustache, thinking.

  “Unless …” Charlotte continued.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless Billy also concluded that the murderer had mistaken Shawn for him. If Billy had been sitting on the point, he would have seen Shawn looking for Okichi-mago. He might have figured out that he was the intended victim of Shawn’s murder and called the murderer up after Shawn’s death with a friendly little reminder that he had better keep his appointment …”

  “In which case, the murderer must have been very surprised. He thinks he’s killed the blackmailer and he finds out that he’s killed the wrong man.”

  “In which case, Billy had better watch out. If the murderer killed Shawn because he thought Shawn was blackmailing him, what’s to keep him from killing Billy? We didn’t have any trouble figuring out where Billy got the money for the down payment. With Billy’s big mouth, it shouldn’t be hard for the murderer to figure it out either.”

  “Especially if the murderer hangs around any bars. I think we’d better talk to Sullivan—fast,” said Lew.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Charlotte concurred.

  After they had finished checking out The Bells, Lew dropped Charlotte off at Briarcote and then went on to the police station to talk with Sullivan. Now all Charlotte had to do was wait. But waiting was hard work. After a few minutes of pacing nervously, she started ransacking her pocketbook for a cigarette. She only smoked occasionally, but when she felt the urge, it was intense. She found not only a packet of cigarettes, but something else as well: the gift package that Just-call-me-Ken had given her at the closing ceremonies. It was exquisitely wrapped, with sharp, crisp edges. She remembered receiving similarly wrapped packages in Japan, where gift-wrapping was a time-honored art. Red and white cords held a fresh piece of white paper in place over the face of the box, on which both her name and Mori’s
were written in an elegant hand. Inside were seven or eight photographs of Charlotte at the geisha party: being introduced by Paul, talking with Shawn, pouring sake for Keiko. It was a lovely idea for a present. She stubbed out her cigarette. The photographs had given her an idea. If it didn’t pay off, at least it would help kill time until this evening. She would visit Mori and ask to see his other photographs. He had been taking pictures throughout the geisha party. In thinking about the murders, she kept coming back to the party. Had something happened there that had prompted someone to kill Okichi-mago? Maybe the pictures would tell. After calling first, she set out down Bellevue Avenue again. Much as she loved this beautiful street, it became tiresome when you had to travel it several times a day. It had taken her only a day and a half to figure out the shortcuts that allowed her to avoid much of the Bellevue Avenue traffic—an achievement that had astonished Connie. “There are people who’ve lived here all their lives who haven’t figured out how to avoid Bellevue Avenue,” she said. Charlotte’s rejoinder was that that they must not have ever lived in New York.

  Mori was staying at the other end of Bellevue at the Viking Hotel, named after the stone tower in the nearby park which was supposedly built by the Vikings. She parked in front of the art museum and walked down to the hotel. Just-call-me-Ken was waiting for her at one of the umbrella-shaded tables in the patio café next to the hotel. His briefcase lay on the table. As she approached, he rose and bowed deeply.

  Charlotte greeted him and thanked him again for his gift.

  “It is my pleasure,” he said. “It is a custom we have in Japan: to give a small gift as a memento of a special event that you have shared with friends. We call such small gifts o-miyage.”

  Charlotte repeated the word. “It’s a lovely custom,” she said.

  “I have the other photographs here, if you would like to see them,” said Mori, laying a hand on his briefcase. “Photography is my special hobby.”

  “I’d like to see them very much,” said Charlotte.

  Taking a seat, he opened his briefcase and removed a stack of photographs, which he handed over to Charlotte.

  As Mori looked on, Charlotte took a seat and started sifting through the pictures: Tanaka sitting on his knees, singing the kouta; Marianne clinging to Shawn’s shoulder; the kitten-faced Keiko beating the drum; Dede flirting with Justin (she was a girl after her mother’s own heart); and Okichi-mago of the turquoise-flecked green eyes, a cluster of red camellias behind her ear, a green sake cup in her hand. She was wearing the sea-shell kimono; Charlotte shuddered as she remembered the way the gold and silver threads had shimmered under the water. She continued sifting through the pictures. Then she found it. She had almost passed it by before realizing that this was the picture that told the whole story. Not only why Okichi-mago had been murdered, but who had murdered her. Her hand shook as she held it up to look at it more closely.

  “You like that picture?” asked Mori with a pleased smile.

  “Yes,” she replied. “May I have a copy?”

  “Of course. Take that one; I can make another. I sent these out to be printed, but at home, I do all my own printing. I can make copies of all of them for you if you’d like.”

  “Thank you very much, but I’d just like this one. This could be a very important picture,” she added. “It might help to explain Okichi-mago’s death. Is the negative stored in a safe place?”

  Mori removed a thick three-ring binder from his briefcase and showed her how he had catalogued the slides of the Black Ships Festival according to event in plastic see-through sleeves.

  Charlotte expressed admiration for his system.

  “When I return to Boston, I will store them in a fireproof filing cabinet,” he assured her. He handed her his business card. “If you want more prints, just let me know.”

  “Thank you very much,” she replied.

  Charlotte and Lew met Sullivan and his assistant, a young policeman named Brogan, in the parking lot at Brenton Point State Park at ten. They had wanted to get to The Bells in plenty of time to avoid running into Billy. Sullivan asked them to join him and Brogan in their unmarked van, and for a few minutes, they discussed their plans. Sullivan and Brogan would wait inside the building; Charlotte and Lew would wait in the underbrush along the path. A backup team would be waiting in the parking lot in three other unmarked cars in case additional help was needed, and to monitor the arrivals and departures of the blackmailer and his victim. All the cars were parked at the end of the long parking lot that lined Ocean Drive, far enough away from The Bells not to arouse suspicion. On a weekend, there would have been plenty of other people around—lovers, stargazers, fishermen—but tonight there were only a few other cars. Charlotte and Lew were there strictly oh sufferance. Sullivan and Brogan would be doing the dirty work; Charlotte and Lew would be the witnesses. Sullivan could hardly have kept them away—it was because of Charlotte that they were there in the first place—but he had given them a strict lecture about not getting involved. If there was any shooting, they were to lie low and stay low. He didn’t want a dead film star on his hands, or a dead city solicitor either.

  “And keep quiet,” he further instructed them.

  After radioing back to the station, he reached for the door handle. “Now we’re off to meet our mystery murderer,” he said.

  “He’s not a mystery murderer,” said Charlotte. It was her first chance to get a word in edgewise.

  “What do you mean, he’s not a mystery murderer?” said Sullivan as he opened the door and then shut it again.

  “I know who the murderer is, and why he killed Okichi-mago.”

  Sullivan turned around, his gray eyebrows flying up in surprise.

  Charlotte removed the photograph from her pocketbook and passed it across the back of the seat to Sullivan. As she did, Lew craned his neck to see.

  Sullivan switched on the interior lights and studied the photo. “What the hell is this?” he barked.

  “This is a picture that was taken by Ken Mori at the Temple of Great Repose on the night of the geisha party.”

  The picture showed two women standing side by side at the railing looking out to sea; it was taken from the rear. “One is Okichi-mago and the other is Marianne Montgomery. Can you tell which is which?”

  “Nope. They look the same to me.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” said Charlotte. She remembered thinking that night how much they looked alike. Both women were the same height and shape. Both wore navy blue kimonos embroidered in gold with a small pattern, both wore the high black-lacquered pompadour that geisha wear on special occasions, and both were wore white tabi socks and black-lacquered geta.

  “Let me see that,” said Lew, reaching over the seat.

  Sullivan passed it back.

  “They look like twins,” said Lew.

  “It was a case of mistaken identity,” said Charlotte. “Okichi-mago was killed by Lester, who thought she was Marianne.” She proceeded to explain. “Marianne has a long history of sexual promiscuity, or rather, had—until she met Lester. That was five or six years ago. She’s been pretty good since then, but there have been occasional lapses.”

  “Lapses,” snorted Sullivan.

  “She’s particularly prone to lapses after a big success; it’s as if success gets her hormones flowing. Anyway, when she met Shawn at the opening ceremonies of the Black Ships Festival, she had just unveiled a new collection to rave reviews. It was clear from the body language she was sending Shawn’s way that she was on the verge of another lapse.”

  “Sounds like a drunk going on a bender,” said Sullivan as Lew passed the picture back to him.

  “That’s a pretty accurate analogy, in fact. At the geisha party that night, she flirted outrageously with Shawn. Shawn was committed to Okichi-mago, but Marianne was ignoring that. At the party, Shawn sang a song about meeting his lover at the rendezvous tree. As the party was breaking up, Lester and Marianne had a fight, and Marianne told him she would walk home.�
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  “What was the fight about?” asked Sullivan.

  “He called her a nasty name. Correction: every nasty name in the book. After that, Lester drove Spalding and Connie and me back to Briarcote and then returned to Shimoda.”

  “To kill Marianne?”

  “I don’t think he was planning to kill her then. Maybe he felt bad about leaving her stranded there, or maybe he just wanted to see what she was up to. In any case, he passed Shawn on the way. Paul had given Shawn a ride back to The Waves after the party, but Shawn was returning for the rendezvous with Okichi-mago under the pine tree.”

  “Lester sees Shawn and thinks he’s going back to meet Marianne?”

  “Exactly. Lester must have known about the romance between Shawn and Okichi-mago, but it didn’t make any difference: in his eyes, Shawn was going back to meet Marianne. Maybe he made the connection with the song or maybe the song went over his head—it doesn’t really matter. Meanwhile, Marianne had decided to walk home on the Cliff Walk.”

  “In this get-up?” said Sullivan, waving the photograph.

  “She took it off and walked home in her under-kimono.”

  Sullivan shook his head, but he didn’t doubt her. He’d seen far stranger behavior from the summer colonists.

  Charlotte went on to describe what had happened: “When Lester arrives back at the temple, he comes upon a woman standing at the railing, waiting for her lover. He thinks the woman is Marianne; it’s dark, and from the back they look alike. The sight of her confirms his suspicion that she has stayed behind to meet Shawn. Her flirtation with Shawn is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He’s seen this happen before. He’s accepted her apologies and believed her pledges that it wouldn’t happen again. Now it is happening again. Overcome by a jealous rage, he pushes her over the railing.” She remembered Paul’s story about Lester trying to smash his car. At the time, she thought he was exaggerating, but now she suspected he was telling the truth.

  “I told you there was nothing that guy wouldn’t do,” said Lew.

  Charlotte nodded and continued with her story: “But as the face of his victim spins around, Lester realizes that the woman he has killed isn’t Marianne, but Okichi-mago.” Charlotte remembered the staring, slanted eyes of the dummy; she could imagine Lester’s horror when he saw Okichi-mago’s face. “At first, he’s shocked by what he’s done. But when he considers his dilemma, he realizes that he’s actually in a better position with Okichi-mago as his victim than he would be had he succeeded in killing Marianne. He’s familiar with the Okichi legend as a result of living at Shimoda. He knows that she died by jumping off a cliff, and he knows that she died exactly a hundred years ago. He decides to make the death look like a suicide.”