“I’ve been keeping an eye on them, too, but none of them creeps me out the way Tom does.”
“What about Mary?”
“What do you mean? She didn’t kill Therese.”
“Is she helping you investigate the others?”
“No. She doesn’t know what I’m doing.”
“But you’re having an affair?”
“We’re trying to keep it quiet. It’s just sex. She keeps saying she’s going to tell Glen about it. They have an arrangement.”
“But she hasn’t told him?”
“Not as far as I know. Believe me, I didn’t expect us to get together. Mary had the hots for me and asked me to coffee. I only went to find out what she knew. She didn’t know anything, but one thing led to another.”
“What about Crandall and Winky and the others?”
“I haven’t slept with them.”
“I wasn’t asking that. What I meant was, do you suspect them?”
“Not so far, but it’s not because I’ve ruled them out, it’s because I haven’t had much of a chance to watch them. All I’m fairly certain of is that Mary and Glen had nothing to do with Therese’s death.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve spent a lot of time with Mary and Glen, and they’ve never said or done anything that raised my suspicions.”
“You’ve spent time with Glen?”
“They like threesomes.”
“But you say he doesn’t know about you and Mary?”
“He doesn’t know about Mary and me as a twosome. It’s murky.”
“Apparently.”
After considering this new information for a time, Cummings decided that as it was a nice day, he might move his cogitation to a nearby park. It was there, while staring absently at bees working a flower bed, that something occurred to him. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Crandall, it’s Cummings Wanamaker.”
“Indeed. Enjoying your honey?”
“I’d like to talk to you in more detail about your argument with Therese. You said Therese’s firm had arranged to sell your honey through one of her clients — a hotel chain, I believe — but she decided abruptly not to proceed.”
“That is correct.”
“When she did find out what your organization did?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk much about my professional life at Mathers. I told her I ran an eco-friendly social entrepreneurial nonprofit, something like that, and suggested we discuss the possibility of a marketing arrangement with some of her clients. At that point she told me to talk to her assistant. She may not have known the details until things had progressed. Why do you ask?”
“A hunch. Thank you.”
Next Cummings phoned Rockland.
“We were correct. Rutley Paik has been trailing Tom Daniels.”
“What about the girl?”
“An affair, nothing more. Did I tell you about the murder in Maine?”
“What murder in Maine?”
“I’ve also been working on a case there. It appears that Therese was married to the victim. I just learned this from Rutley.”
“Did you indeed?”
“That being so, I think it’s time for a visit. I seem to be at an impasse in Chicago anyway.”
“Can you afford it?”
“Not really, but I’ll make it cheap. I’ll drive. I have people I can stay with. I don’t think Rutley has anything to do with the crime. I think it’s time to change our focus. Could you keep an eye on Tom Daniels?”
“Why?”
“There’s something odd going on there, something that seems to involve that book I borrowed, Love’s Tender Chainmail.” Cummings explained about the hollowed out book.
“It would be my pleasure.”
When Cummings told Odin he was going to Maine, he stressed that it would be a quick and inexpensive trip and that he would stay with Ernestine. Odin wasn’t as resistant as Cummings had feared.
“I have a job interview on Monday,” Odin announced. “I don’t know too much about the job, but maybe I’ll get it, and it will pay enough that we can stop worrying about money.”
“That would be terrific,” Cummings agreed. “What company is the interview with?”
Odin suddenly seemed reticent. “I’d rather not say,” he replied. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
Cummings rose very early, loaded up his car and pulled out of his driveway shortly after 6:00 a.m.
In transit Cummings made a few phone calls. One was to Ernestine to tell her he would be arriving that night. He apologized for the late notice, but she didn’t seem to mind.
Another call was to his father.
“Dad? It’s Cummings.”
“Hello, son. I am seeking a ten-letter word that begins with c and ends with y. The clue is ‘not the pen ultimate.’“
“Cacography,” Cummings said after thinking for a minute. “It means bad handwriting or spelling.”
“You’re the best, son,” George said. “Here’s another puzzle. It’s called chilly phrases. The first clue is ‘rarely fought.’“
“Cold war,” Cummings responded.
“Out damned spot.”
“Cold cream.”
“Yet still fraught.”
“Cold comfort.”
“Only plot.”
“Cold feet.”
“No forethought.”
“Cold turkey. Dad, I have to go. I’m on my way to Maine now. I’ll call you in the next day or two.”
Chapter Fourteen
At around 11:00 p.m. Cummings arrived at Ernestine’s. He brought in his luggage, flopped exhausted onto the top of a bed in one of the guest rooms and slept until 8:00 a.m.
He took a shower and then placed a call to Deuteronomy. His call was answered by what sounded like an old-fashioned machine with a taped message. The voice was Elektra’s, probably reading from a script, as it was the only time Cummings had heard her use English in its unmangled form. He left a message after the beep.
“Hello. This is Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. I’m in Maine for the next few days. I’m staying with Ernestine. I hope to visit you when it’s convenient.” He left his cell phone number.
Cummings went downstairs and found Ernestine in the kitchen with her housekeeper, Rebecca. He also found a pot of tea and a basket of fresh muffins.
“Elektra phoned last night to ask for your phone number,” Ernestine told him. “I told her to tell Deuty you were here. I hope that’s all right.”
“I just phoned him,” Cummings said.
“You know, they dropped the charges against him,” Ernestine said.
“He mentioned something about a run-in with the law, but he said it wasn’t serious. It didn’t seem appropriate to pry.”
“He got caught poking around a building in Zion he shouldn’t have been poking around, and he was arrested for trespassing. Well, the district attorney is dropping the charges. So that’s that.”
“I’m sure Deuteronomy is relieved,” Cummings said, sitting down and reaching for a muffin.
“I imagine so, but if you ask me, the incident was nothing marrying nothing. An old man out in the evening, more or less minding his own business, shouldn’t find himself under arrest.”
Cummings found Samson Hickok’s address online and got into his car. Samaria, the next village north on Route 240, had a history similar to Horeb’s, though Samaria had always been larger and more prosperous. Samaria was founded in the eighteenth century, achieved its economic peak in the nineteenth and declined in the twentieth until, like Horeb, it resurged as a bedroom community.
Two fires around the turn of the twentieth century had destroyed Horeb’s waterfront on the Carlisle River. Samaria’s downtown remained intact, as did its Greek Revival houses, a legacy of its affluence in the period before the Civil War. Samaria had shops, restaurants and galleries, albeit not very many, and none particularly distinguished.
Cummings located Samson’s house and par
ked on a side street. Their last encounter had not gone well; Cummings knew he’d have to do better this time.
Cummings set the timer on his watch, opened his glove compartment and took out a small pad and pen. He attempted to write down useful, trust-inducing phrases he might casually toss to Samson or whatever member of his family answered the door when Cummings knocked. When the buzzer sounded, he had a half-dozen comments that seemed potentially effective.
He walked toward the house, a late Victorian in need of exterior paint. As in Illinois, Cummings found Samson in the garden. This garden, enclosed by a whitewashed picket fence, was large and regimented—the perennials here, the vegetables there, the herbs at the near end, the fruit trees at the far end—with each section separated neatly by a strip of well-trimmed sod.
Cummings leaned over the fence. “What a lovely day!” he said with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
Samson, who was weeding a vegetable bed, looked up. He studied Cummings for a few moments and then realized who he was.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Samson replied tonelessly.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for stopping by. I know I was a bit of an eager beaver when we last met. Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“As you know, I’m looking into Therese’s death for the Mathers Society. I’m not working with the police or an insurance company or anyone else. There’s nothing tangible for anyone at Mathers to gain here, just closure. Everyone loved Therese.”
“And you think I know something useful?”
“I was hoping you might confirm some information. To begin, I’m just curious — did Therese dislike bees?”
“Yes. She hated them. Why do you ask?”
“A guess. What was the cause?”
“She ate some poison honey when she was a child. She was very sick.”
“Who poisoned it?”
“No one. It was naturally occurring. The bees made the honey from poisonous plants.”
“I see. And what did Cosima die of?”
“A car accident.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“What usually happens around here: an icy road during the winter. She lost control and careened into a tree.”
“Only one more question. Can you confirm that Therese and Chess were married?”
“Yes, briefly. They remained friends. Therese had an MBA. Chess didn’t. Sometimes she gave him business advice.”
“This is a really beautiful garden.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Thank you so much. I appreciate this. Thanks again!”
“Very well then,” Samson said, returning to work.
On the way back to the car, while he was congratulating himself on his display of interpersonal sensitivity, something occurred to Cummings. He reached for his cell phone.
“Rockland?”
“Cummings. Aren’t you in Maine?”
“I am. I have a toxicology question for you.”
“Excellent! I do enjoy toxins before lunch.”
“Generally speaking, how prevalent are toxic species among common garden plants?”
“Many common varieties are poisonous in whole or in part,” Rockland responded. “Colchicum autumnale — that’s the autumn crocus. Multiple species of rhododendron, barberry, gaillardia, dicentra, eucalyptus, buckthorn, bougainvillea, asclepias — that’s the butterfly weed — lobelia, agave, cestrum, clematis, clivia, iris, euonymus, gladiolus, philodendron, juniperus, euphorbia, narcissus, cyclamen, chrysanthemum, delphinium, dieffenbachia and hydrangea. Did I mention kalmia latisfolio, mountain laurel, and lantana camera? Let’s not overlook the leaves and stems of the nightshades, such as tomatoes. Of course, there are many other examples.”
“I’m surprised gardening hasn’t been banned,” Cummings said, a bit stunned.
“Why? It’s safe as long as one wears gloves and doesn’t munch one’s way through one’s flower beds. How are things going in New England?”
“All right, I suppose. No breakthroughs. And in Chicago?
“The same. Nothing to report.”
“I’ll phone in a few days.”
Cummings made another call, this time the promised call to his father. He dutifully made arrangements to visit that evening. That done, he had no other action items for the day. He decided to take a walk around Samaria.
The village looked much the same as it had when he lived in Maine. Maine changed slowly. Over a number of years one might notice fewer farms and less wooded land, more cheap and ugly houses and, in the coastal communities, more and better restaurants. But otherwise, Maine was Maine.
A farmers market was in progress in the town common, and Cummings wandered through it. The produce was hearty, and the crafts were perfunctory, though his attention was drawn to one vendor selling elegant candles.
“My mother and I make these the way our family’s done for more than two hundred years,” the vendor explained. He was a portly, middle-aged man with a beard. Apparently he had typed Cummings as a tourist from Boston or New York who might be impressed by such homespun salesmanship.
“Doesn’t that make it difficult to turn a profit?” Cummings responded.
“You know what they say, anything worth doing ...” the man responded. “Besides, it’s more of a hobby than anything else.”
“What do you do the rest of the time?”
“I work in a factory.”
Cummings bought several pairs of candles and moved on.
At the end of the farmers market, he saw that a crafts shop featuring the work of local artisans had opened. He browsed through it, perusing its crocheted oven mitts, corn husk dolls, wooden lobsters, dried soup mixes and scarves knitted from the wool of local sheep. Nothing caught his fancy. He returned to Horeb and took a long nap.
Coastal Maine is characterized by many inlets and peninsulas. Orchid and George, Cummings’s father and stepmother, lived at the end of one in a village called Shiloh. Shiloh was about an hour’s drive from Horeb along the corkscrew-shaped Shiloh Road. This wound through forest and pasture for about thirty miles south from Route 1, the main coastal highway. The only other way in was by the sea.
Shiloh was one of the many quaint, charming Maine villages with a mix of eighteenth century homes and twenty-first century gift shops. It was rumored that the Vikings may have landed nearby in the tenth century, and tourists have been spending their summers there for many of the years since.
Orchid had bought the house many decades and husbands ago, when coastal cottages with seaside acreage could be had cheap. The house was not impressive. It was a cedar-shingled fisherman’s saltbox, built at some point in the nineteenth century and modernized over time. It was small: a kitchen, dining room, living room, two baths and three bedrooms, two of which were tiny.
However, the house sat on almost ten waterfront acres facing the Sheepscot Bay at the edge of an inlet known as Discord Harbor. The lot was a very long rectangle, only about three hundred feet wide. The house was reached by a very long, steep driveway off a leafy byway that forked off Shiloh Road. This had once led to a dairy farm and was called Whey Way. Who says New Englanders don’t have a sense of humor?
There was a long, grassy decline that led from the house to a crag on the sea, a rocky cliff perhaps thirty feet above the waterline, which ran the width of the property. Worn wooden steps led from the edge of the grass down to a boat dock. This was not presently in use, as Orchid and George weren’t particularly aquatic. Old stands of trees on both sides of the property separated the land from its neighbors.
Large flower and vegetable beds adorned each side of the house. Behind the house about half an acre was fenced. This area, reached through a gate near the end of the driveway, contained a small strip of lawn and a larger wooden deck. This was connected to the kitchen via sliders. These sliders served as the back door, and thus primary entrance, to the house.
Cummings walked
through the gate and knocked on the sliders. George appeared and opened the door. George looked just as he always did: short, gaunt, crumpled and chaotic. In this respect he looked something like Albert Einstein, at least a thinner Albert Einstein. Also, there was George’s madras.
George never wore anything but a madras bow tie over a wrinkled, white button-down shirt, with short or long madras pants and a madras blazer. Naturally, all of the madras patterns clashed. This blazer was one of George’s three coats, the lightest in weight and often worn during the summer. He also owned an ancient, ill-fitting Harris Tweed, which he wore when colder temperatures prevailed and often when they didn’t. Finally, he possessed a frayed herringbone sports jacket that dated to the 1970s.
“How are you, Dad?”
“Zesty.”
“I’m glad, Dad. Are you and Orchid hungry? I thought I might take you out to dinner,” Cummings asked, “or we could get some lobsters.”
“Doesn’t that require a boat?”
“I meant at the supermarket.”
“Do you find me odd?” George asked suddenly but with his usual dispassion.
“What?” Cummings said, not expecting that question.
“Do you find me odd? Orchid says I’m odd.”
“I think it’s all relative,” Cummings said tactfully. “One has to find individuals who share one’s worldview.”
“Weltanschauung. Fourteen letters. German.”
“Exactly.”
They headed toward the kitchen. As they did so George said, “Did you know Maine has thirty-three thousand, two hundred fifteen square miles; six thousand lakes and ponds; thirty-five hundred miles of coastline and seventeen million acres of forest?”
“No, I didn’t,” Cummings replied.
Orchid, Cummings’s eighty-year-old stepmother, stood in the kitchen, sifting a large quantity of flour. She was small but taut, the probable result of a lifetime of physical vigor and intellectual athleticism. When Cummings had first met her years earlier, she’d had a long white ponytail. For reasons Cummings did not understand, and he didn’t understand much about her, she had shaved her head for her wedding to his father. Her hair had grown back to haphazardly trimmed chaos. She wore jeans, a flannel shirt and slippers.
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