by James Hayman
‘How old?’
‘Fifty-seven. Just keeled over from a heart attack one day walking up to the house from her morning swim. Never knew what hit her.’
Maggie studied the paintings. A dozen hanging on the wall. Dozens more propped up around the studio or stacked in a loft overhead. Impressionistic nudes of a tall, angular woman with slim hips and smallish breasts. She told Julia she’d wondered who the model was. Told her how wonderful she thought they were. Julia was pleased that Maggie liked her work. It pleased Maggie, in turn, that she was able to please the old woman. That seemed, somehow, an important thing to do.
In the end, she supposed that was why she agreed to pose for Julia. That and the twenty dollars an hour Julia paid her, more than three times what she was earning as a cashier at the CVS store in Machias.
After that, for the last week in July and for all of August, three afternoons a week, while Em was working at the hardware store and Sam was in the house supposedly working on his novel, Maggie came to the studio and Julia painted or, more often, sketched her. Usually quick gestural sketches of athletic, dancelike poses. No more than five minutes each.
During one of these sessions she noticed Sam standing at the open window gazing in at her naked body. He didn’t turn away when she caught his eye. Just smiled a mischievous smile and continued to look for a minute or two longer, his expression betraying desire. Maggie stood there, returning Sam’s gaze, holding her pose, feeling a small trill of guilty pleasure from the almost certain knowledge that if she really wanted Sam, on this day or any other, she could have him. At least until someone newer and more interesting came along.
‘Stop staring at Maggie, Sam,’ Julia said when she noticed him at the window. ‘It’s rude. Go back to your writing.’
Maggie never told Emily anything about the encounter. How could she? Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Just a look, a smile, a silent invitation. Still she wondered now, as she had wondered so often in the past, how much their lives might have changed had she had the courage back then, when they were both eighteen, to tell her best friend that the man she blindly loved from that summer on should never have been blindly trusted.
Julia died two years later. She left the house, several hundred paintings, including a dozen or so of Maggie, and a chunk of her considerable fortune to Sam. She said, in her will, that she hoped he would use the house as she had, as a place to create art and to share his life with someone he loved.
21
10:17 P.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009
Eastport, Maine
Dirty Annie’s was well named. It was without question the darkest, dirtiest, dingiest bar anywhere in Eastport or, for that matter, anywhere in Washington County. In fact, had anyone been foolish enough to hold a competition for the least-appealing watering hole anywhere in Maine, Annie’s would have been an odds-on favorite to walk away with the prize.
Even so, the place had been in business a long time and most locals expected it would remain in business a long time going forward. Annie sold cheap liquor at cheap prices and didn’t care too much about what you did on the premises as long as you didn’t break anything doing it or, if you did, as long as you were willing to pay for it. Annie’s drew a pretty good crew of hard-drinking regulars, most of whom either couldn’t afford or didn’t want to go anywhere else.
Luke Haskell was one of Annie’s best customers. Had been for years. Came in every afternoon after docking the Katie Louise. Had a couple of drinks. Appetizers he called them. Then something to eat. A bowl of chili or fish chowder. After his stomach was full, the serious drinking began and Luke would spend the rest of the night consuming as much liquor as his skinny body could hold. Most nights Annie poured him out of the place one drink short of passing out, pointed him up Water Street in the direction of the breakwater and reminded him to set an alarm before he went to bed as he had to get up early in the morning to go chasing lobsters for Pike Stoddard.
On this Saturday night, as on most other nights, Luke nodded at Annie’s instructions and started weaving his way toward home, home being another night spent alone in the cramped dark cabin of the Katie Louise.
Being in no condition to notice anything beyond the necessity of putting one foot in front of the other, Luke failed to notice the man who slipped out of the alleyway next to Dirty Annie’s and fell into step twenty or so feet behind him.
Luke’s progress was of necessity slow. Every now and again, to avoid falling backward on to his ass or, more painfully, forward on to his face, he was forced to stop and balance himself against the side of a building with his left hand or, if he happened to be closer to the curb, against a parked car with his right. On these occasions the man behind him would also stop and wait patiently in the shadows for Luke to get started again.
Proceeding in this manner, it took the two of them nearly twenty minutes to walk the quarter mile to the deserted breakwater. Seeing no one else in the vicinity, the man closed the gap between himself and Luke and followed close behind as the old fisherman staggered down the steep and narrow ramp, holding both rails tightly in his two hands. At the bottom they continued in tandem to the end of the dock, where the Katie Louise was tied up. When they finally got to the boat, Luke, perhaps sensing a presence behind him, turned and for the first time noticed he was not alone. Someone was standing right behind him, holding a small brown paper bag.
Luke peered at the man’s face, trying to figure out if he’d ever seen it before. The face did look familiar. He was sure he’d met him but couldn’t recall where.
Conor Riordan pulled a pair of white latex gloves from his pocket and smiled. ‘Nice evening, Luke. Don’t you think so?’
‘Who are ya? Whatcha want?’
‘Luke, I’m hurt. You don’t even recognize an old shipmate? From scalloping? From last winter?’ The man pulled an unopened pint of Jack Daniel’s, Luke’s favorite, from the paper bag. Held the bottle up for Luke to see.
The old fisherman squinted more closely at the man’s face. Then at the bottle in his hand. He literally licked his lips, first the upper, then the lower, at the sight of the familiar label. ‘Oh, yeah, sure, scalloping. Last winter.’
‘Thought it might be nice for us to catch up. Maybe have a nightcap while we talk. You know? One for the road.’
‘Okay,’ Luke nodded. ‘Guess one for the road wouldn’t hurt.’
Luke climbed aboard the boat. The man followed. Once on board, the two men eased themselves down into sitting position on the deck. The man handed Luke the bottle of whiskey. ‘Old friends first. Help yourself,’ he said.
Luke unscrewed the top, took a long pull at the bottle and handed it back. ‘What’s it you wanna talk about?’ he asked.
Riordan took the bottle carefully in his gloved hands so as not to disturb any of Luke’s fingerprints.
‘Here’s to you, Luke. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.’ He raised the bottle but didn’t drink so as not to add his own saliva to Luke’s on the rim.
Luke didn’t notice. Just took the bottle eagerly when the man handed it back.
‘Yeah. To you too, whoever you are.’ Luke took another long pull.
By the time the bottle was mostly empty, Luke was sound asleep. Riordan got up and kicked him lightly in the butt just to make sure he was really out. Then he tied a line around one of Luke’s boots, hoisted him over the side and lowered him head first into the bay.
The frigid Maine water shocked Luke into a kind of drunken consciousness but it took only a minute or two of flailing and flopping for the old sailor to suck up enough salt water to fill his lungs and sink. Even so the man waited a couple of minutes longer. Just to be sure.
Then he pulled Luke in like a big dead fish, unwound the line from around Luke’s ankle and let the body slip into the darkness below.
That done, he poured the meager remains of the whiskey into the water and placed the empty bottle, still bearing Luke’s fingerprints and saliva, on to the deck where the police would no doubt concl
ude Luke had knocked off one too many and, in so doing, had inadvertently tumbled overboard to his death.
As Conor Riordan climbed back on to the dock and walked to his car, he wondered if Luke Haskell actually remembered him or not. Didn’t much matter. He wouldn’t remember him any more.
22
10:31 P.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009
Roque Bluffs, Maine
The sound of the screen door banging against its frame shook Maggie from thoughts of the past. She turned to see Sam and Willie coming back from the house, Sam carrying a bottle of Piper and two delicate champagne flutes, Willie carrying his grungy tennis ball.
‘I thought I’d try to convince you to change your mind. Celebrate our reunion.’
Maggie was about to turn him down again and then figured, what the hell, why not? Sam might be more relaxed about telling her what she needed to know if she shared the champagne and came at him more as a friend than as a cop. ‘Okay. Just a little.’
The cork exploded from the bottle. Willie galloped after it. Sam poured out two glasses of Piper-Heidsieck. He handed Maggie one.
‘To old friends,’ he said, raising his flute.
She tapped her glass against his, took a sip of the delicious bubbly stuff. ‘Old friends.’
‘Now, tell me, Maggie May, what is it you want to talk about?’
‘Tiffany Stoddard.’
‘Who?’
‘Tiffany Stoddard.’
Sam’s expression turned blank. ‘Sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘It should. You gave her an A in your non-fiction class last fall. Another A in your short story class this spring. An attractive young woman, at least in her pictures. About five-four. Slim. Dark hair.’
‘Tiffany Stoddard?’ Sam said as if searching his memory. ‘Oh yes, I do remember her.’ The hardness in his face faded. The jokiness returned. ‘Unfortunate name, Tiffany. I’ve always felt people shouldn’t name their daughters after jewelry stores.’
Maggie ignored the sarcasm. She wasn’t about to allow herself to be distracted by Sam’s bullshit. ‘What was your relationship with her?’
‘Relationship?’ Sam shrugged. ‘She was my student. I was her teacher. As you noted, she took my non-fiction class last fall. Short story this spring.’
‘You gave her As in both.’
‘She wrote well. Her short story was very good in fact. I gave her an A for it because she deserved an A.’
‘Where is her story?’
‘No idea. I graded it. Made some comments. Suggested she might try for publication in one of the smaller magazines or perhaps online. Then I gave it back to her.’
‘You didn’t keep a copy?’
‘No. But I’m sure she has one.’
‘Was the non-fiction class the first time you met her?’
Sam studied her. Maggie supposed he was trying to decide whether or not to lie. Sam, as Emily had learned so often during their years together, was an accomplished liar.
‘No,’ he said, ‘we initially met on campus the previous spring. She was wandering around Kimball Hall, that’s where the English Department’s housed, looking for her academic advisor’s office. Walked into mine by accident.’
‘And?’
‘You know me, Maggie,’ Sam smiled. ‘I took one look at those luscious legs and invited her in. We talked. She told me she was interested in writing. More specifically in journalism. Said she wanted to be a reporter. I suggested she sign up for my non-fiction class for the fall semester. I gave her an A in that class as well.’
‘Were you fucking her, Sam?’
Sam said nothing. Just hit the wet tennis ball for Willie and watched the dog race for the beach.
‘Were you fucking her?’
‘Of course not. It’s against the rules for a professor to have sexual relations with one of his students.’
The wooden screen door slammed again and both Maggie and Sam turned to see a naked and obviously very drunk young woman stagger down the porch stairs. She stopped by Maggie’s chair to pick up her flip-flops and then continued on her way, apparently heading for the beach. Willie followed, eager for new games.
Maggie watched her go. ‘Anyone you know?’ she asked. ‘In the biblical sense I mean.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Margaret. Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
‘Sam, I really don’t care what you do with your personal life. Particularly since you and Emily are no longer married. I just need to know if you were having sex with her. Tiffany Stoddard I mean. Not Lady Godiva down there.’
‘It may surprise you, Margaret,’ Sam sighed, ‘but I don’t have sex with all my students.’
‘No, Sam, I’m sure you don’t. Just the good-looking females you can bully, bribe or otherwise cajole into bed.’
‘You know, Maggie, you’re beginning to sound more like a cop and less like a friend. You’re also beginning to irritate me.’
‘Actually, I’m here as a cop, Sam.’
‘Really? And why is that? Why are you asking about Tiffany Stoddard?
‘She was murdered.’
Sam’s face registered shock. ‘How did it happen?’
‘With a knife. Down by the state park in Machiasport. Somebody stabbed her a number of times, then cut her throat and left her there to die.’
Sam grimaced. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he finally said. ‘Tiffany was not only pretty, she was also a talented and ambitious young woman. Do they – do you – know who did it?’
Maggie studied Sam before answering. Still unreadable.
‘Do you know who did it?’ he repeated.
‘No, not yet, Sam.’
Maggie considered the possibilities. Could Sam have been Stoddard’s accomplice in the drug trade as well as her lover? Perhaps the source of the 10,000 dollars offered to Pike Stoddard in return for the use of his boat. Writing fiction and teaching college English seemed an unlikely apprenticeship for drug dealing but maybe Sam craved excitement. More likely, he needed money. His tastes and lifestyle required large amounts of it. According to Emily, at the time of their divorce he’d already worked his way through much of what Julia left him. If all he had left at this point was the house and his salary at UMM, well, it wasn’t nearly enough for his needs. Five million dollars might be very tempting, especially if Tiff did most of the dirty work.
‘Any suspects?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sam. I need you to tell me where you were last night between eight o’clock and roughly two A.M.’
‘You’re not suggesting I killed Tiffany Stoddard? You can’t be serious.’
‘Just answer the question. Where were you?’
‘Here. At the house.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Alone.’ The drunken slur was gone. Suddenly Sam seemed very aware of what he was saying. ‘I was in the studio working. Writing. I’m trying hard to finish the new novel. Not an easy task. The words don’t come as easily as they once did.’
‘By the studio you mean Julia’s studio?’
‘Yes. I’ve turned it into my office, my writing room.’
‘Anyone see you there?’
‘No. When I write, I write alone and I don’t encourage interruptions.’
‘I see. While you were there, writing alone, did you make or receive any phone calls?’
‘No. There’s no phone in the studio. And cell reception out here is practically non-existent. Why?’
‘Just that there’d be a record of a call being made. An indication that you’re telling the truth.’
‘Just an indication? Not a proof?’
‘No, not a proof. Somebody else might have used your phone. When was the last time you worked on the book?’
‘Last night. I was at it quite late.’
‘I assume you write on a computer?’
‘Yes. Of course. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’d like you to show me the computer.’
‘Not until you tell me why.’
‘C
omputers are precise machines. Yours will have kept a record of when you last modified the manuscript.’
‘So it would. All right, come with me.’ Sam got up from his chair and led Maggie across the lawn. Willie trotted behind. The old barn had been transformed. Instead of Julia’s colorful chaos of paints and canvases and the smell of oils and turpentine, the room was now furnished as a writer’s office and filled with books and magazines, some neatly stored in bookcases, others strewn carelessly about. Half a dozen of Julia’s paintings hung from the walls. Three seascapes and three nudes. Two of Zanie and one of Maggie herself at eighteen. Half the age she was today. It was a good painting and she decided not to allow herself to be distracted or embarrassed by its presence.
An antique pine desk occupied the middle of the room. On the desk, she saw a slender silver laptop bearing the ubiquitous Apple logo. A light at the front of the case indicated the machine was still turned on, in sleep mode.
She sat. Sam stood behind her. She opened the computer and tapped the space bar, waking the machine from its slumber. Her eyes scanned an on-screen desktop littered with dozens of files and documents. Sam was not a meticulous electronic housekeeper. ‘Which one?’ she asked.
He pointed to a file.
‘A Slender Thread ?’
‘Yes. That’s the working title. It’s about a murder actually. An older man has an affair with a younger woman. He kills her when she tells him she’s dumping him for a younger man.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘Naturally, the murder is investigated by a beautiful female detective.’
Maggie turned and stared up at him.
‘Relax, Margaret. I’m only joking. It is about a murder but there are no beautiful detectives in the book. Or anywhere else I suppose. Present company excepted of course.’
‘Not funny, Sam. If you think my investigation or Tiffany Stoddard’s death are things you should be joking about, trust me, I have ways of changing your mind very quickly.’
‘I’m sorry. That was in bad taste. I apologize.’