“No.”
“Whose lives were ruined, then?” I asked, stealing a glance at Mort, who stood there like a statue, with his Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform, for Alvin McCandless to see.
“Tripp and . . .”
“Tripp and who, Chief?”
His eyes sought me out, pleading and desperate. Big Al looked as if he might be about to cry.
“Are you mad at me for what I did?”
“Not at all.”
“I just wanted to help. That was my job—to help.” His eyes found Mort, focusing on his uniform. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it, Sheriff?”
“It sure is, Chief.”
“What was it you did?” I asked, again hoping to hold Big Al to this train of thought.
“What Mimi told me. She’d figured it all out. I couldn’t argue with her. It was a good thing we were doing, not a bad thing. I believed that.” His gaze jerked back to Mort. “You would have done the same thing, wouldn’t you?”
“For sure. Any good lawman would.”
Big Al smiled serenely. “Lawman . . . I was a lawman. . . .”
“You still are, Chief,” Mort told him. “It’s something you never stop being just because you stop wearing the uniform. You know why?” He tapped his head. “Because being a lawman’s up here.”
“I helped them. I did what I had to do.”
I looked toward Mort, yielding the floor to him.
“Helped who?” he asked Big Al.
“Tripp Van Dorn and . . .”
“And who, Chief?”
“Tripp Van Dorn and . . . the other one.”
“His mother?”
“Not his mother—the other one. Hey, my show’s on.”
“Who’s the other one?” Mort asked him.
“You’re standing in the way! Get out of the way!”
“You helped Tripp and who else? What was his name?”
“Da-da-da-da-da,” he started in, mimicking the Hawaii Five-0 theme song.
“Who was the other person you helped that night after the accident, Chief?”
Big Al looked up at Mort, and I was certain he was finally ready to answer the question.
“Book ’em, Danno,” he said instead.
“McGarrett would have done the same thing you did that night,” I tried.
“He liked helping people, too.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Lives shouldn’t be ruined. It was the right thing to do and the wrong thing to do.”
“Of course.”
“I couldn’t say no to Mimi.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“You won’t tell on me, will you? People in Marblehead have been known to talk, you know.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, knowing the same thing was true about Cabot Cove.
“When do I get my cookies? Remember, Thin Mints.”
“Six boxes.”
Big Al stiffened, looking suddenly out of sorts. “Where did I put my checkbook? Have you seen my checkbook?”
He started sweeping his eyes about in search of something he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.
“Don’t you remember, Chief?” I chimed in quickly. “They’re free. Buy six and get six free.”
“Buy six and get six free! Buy six and get six free! Buy six and get six free!”
“And you already bought six, so these next six are free.”
“Oh, that’s good, that’s very good.”
Then he went back to humming the Hawaii Five-0 theme song, as Mort and I finally moved out of his way.
* * *
• • •
“Well, that was helpful,” Mort said, sarcasm lacing his voice, as we emerged from Briarcliff Gardens.
“You weren’t listening,” I told him. “Alvin McCandless gave us everything we needed in there.”
“Everything we needed?” Mort stopped and shook his head, eyeing me the same way he’d been eyeing Big Al. “Maybe I should check to see if this place has any rooms available. . . .”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I think you’re finally cracking up. I think all this is finally getting to you, Jessica.”
“That’s ‘Mrs. Fletcher’ to you, Sheriff.”
“Did you treat Amos Tupper this way?”
“Do you know how many times you’ve asked me that over the years?”
“Then I guess one more won’t matter.”
Mort moved in front of me and ground to a halt when we were still halfway to his SUV, roasting in the Rhode Island sun, which had me longing for the pleasant sea breeze for which Cabot Cove was known. “Did you actually say McCandless gave us what we needed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I didn’t hear it.”
“I guess you don’t speak his language as well as I do, Mort.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“Not until we get the results of the DNA test back for proof positive,” I told him. “But I already know who killed Tripp Van Dorn. And I know who killed Mimi, too.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mort dropped me at Hill House nearly five hours later, after slogging through interminable summer traffic on every road we found ourselves on. Cabot Cove was in the midst of a beautiful sunset he wasn’t about to let me enjoy.
“Notice how quiet I was during the drive.”
“I thought you were mad I didn’t explain my theory on who I believe killed Tripp and Mimi Van Dorn.”
“No, ma’am. I was quiet because I didn’t want to pester you. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
I nodded, waiting to see if Mort had anything further to say and then continuing when he didn’t. “Not like you to show so much patience when murder is involved.”
“I thought I’d make an exception in this case, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Not going to let that go, are you?”
“I like changing things up once in a while.”
I eyed him closer. “So what do you want in return?”
“Just one thing,” Mort said, getting to the point. “Stay away from the Clifton Clinic until we get all this sorted out.”
“By ‘sorted out,’ do you mean an arrest warrant for Charles Clifton?”
“Don’t jump the gun here. This is a matter better handled by the Maine attorney general’s office.”
“Since when do you refer murder to the attorney general?”
“I was talking about all these shenanigans he’s pulling with clinical trials.”
“I was talking about Mimi Van Dorn’s murder.”
“So I gathered,” Mort told me. “Do I need to put a cruiser on this place to make sure you stay put?”
“I doubt you can spare the manpower.”
“Watch me.”
* * *
• • •
I knocked on the door to the room George Sutherland had yet to check out of, a part of me fully expecting him to open it with a hearty smile and a sensible explanation as to where he’d been for two days now. But my rapping went unanswered, which didn’t stop me from pressing my ear against the door, in the hope of detecting some sign George was actually inside.
Thanks to that imagination of mine again.
The suite I was occupying at Hill House—while my beloved home on Candlewood Lane was being rebuilt following that fire—overlooked the wooded rear of the property, instead of the front. But a return to the lobby a few minutes later revealed a Cabot Cove squad car was indeed parked on the street beyond the hotel.
Of course, I had no intention of letting its presence deter my next move. George Sutherland’s disappearance, and his ultimate fate, might very well lie squarely in the hands of Charles Clifton and Jeffrey Archibald. There was no other rational explanation for what had become
of him. Truth be told, I’d come to fear that sharing my suspicions and trepidations about George’s trust in the Clifton Clinic may have had ended up placing him in more jeopardy instead of less. I always told myself that, one of these days, I’d learn to leave well enough alone, but so far, anyway, that day hadn’t come.
I returned to my suite and switched on the television, tuned perpetually to CNN. I hoped to be able to find some way to talk myself out of what I intended to do next, some rationale to dissuade me from doing something I was already committed to in my mind. I can’t say exactly where this penchant originated. No single event in my past jumped out. I’d never suffered the kind of injustice that might explain my obsession with seeing justice done. It was, instead, likely the point where my fictional and actual selves melded into one; instead of writing a role, I was playing one. I didn’t consider myself a crusader, but found it impossible not to act in the wake of someone close to me being harmed.
And there were few closer than George Sutherland. Why had it taken so long between visits? Why had I thought of him so infrequently since our last meeting? I think you reach a certain age in life when you’re more afraid of being together than alone. The fact that George and I were separated by so much distance meant the times that brought us together were treated as special occasions. The end of each visit inevitably came with the melancholy sense that it was over, mixed with the sense of relief we were going our separate ways, secure in the knowledge we’d be coming together again.
But not so much now.
When I insert myself into an investigation, it’s almost always out of no more than an obsession to see justice done. That sounds like a cliché until someone loses their life at the hands of another, often throwing numerous other lives into turmoil. Murder is many things, but at its heart it almost invariably comes down to one:
Evil.
Evil is what lies at the heart of almost all murders. Evil is the ultimate bully, making us feel weak and helpless in its face. I had dabbled in writing before my husband Frank’s death, but I didn’t actually start my first book until the days following his funeral, I thought both to honor his longtime advice to go after my dream and to distract from my grief. Now I realize that I turned to writing to create a world that was mine to control, where I’d no longer feel weak and helpless as I did with Frank’s illness and ultimate passing. Trying to do the same in real life, I suppose, was just a natural progression.
But this was different.
This was about George. Sure, it was about Mimi and Tripp Van Dorn, too, but there was no one I was serving by uncovering their killers. I fully believed George was still alive, and on the chance he wasn’t, the evil behind his murder could be laid on the desks of two men: Charles Clifton and Jeffrey Archibald.
And that was exactly what I intended to do, starting with a phone call.
* * *
• • •
“Sheriff Metzger’s not in the building, Mrs. Fletcher,” the night duty officer at the sheriff’s department told me. “Would you like to leave a message?”
I breathed a sigh of relief, glad I’d be spared explaining what was essentially a Hail Mary pass to Mort. “No, I just had a quick question about something we’re working on. Might Deputy Andy be available?”
“Let me check.”
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Deputy Andy greeted me moments later.
“I just have a quick question I don’t want to bother the sheriff with.”
“Happy to help, if I can.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. See, the question’s about parking tickets. . . .”
* * *
• • •
I kept my bike in a storage shed that contained, among other things, the old chaise lounges for the pool Hill House had covered over to make room for the hotel’s expansion years ago, which had proved very handy when Cabot Cove turned trendy.
I’d purchased something called a town bike, put out by a company called Pashley, after my older Schwinn was destroyed in a riding accident. A front slot fitted for an old-fashioned wicker basket was what had first attracted me to it in the store, my interest also stoked by some of the very qualities that turned others away. First of all, it was heavy and came standard with an abuse-proof frame that promised to last a long time and even withstand any further encounters I might have with nefarious pickup trucks. The salesman explained about the challenges its internal gear hub drivetrain posed for climbing hills, but since coastal Cabot Cove boasted virtually no hills to speak of, I took the Pashley out for a spin and fell in love with it instantly. Its heft had an old-fashioned feel and sense to it. Not the choice to make if you intended to be racing around, but since I didn’t, I’d purchased it on the spot.
It was a beautiful night for a bike ride, and I would have normally worn a reflective vest to go along with the reflective spinners, but tonight I wanted to avoid getting any attention—and especially to avoid being detected by the patrolman Mort Metzger had assigned to watch over Hill House.
The night was better than beautiful to be on the road in the open air; it was perfect. As always, I pedaled slowly, taking my time, aware of the considerable distance from here to the Cabot Cove bluffs where I’d find my quarry. And, true to that fact, my jaunt to and through the center of town itself was covered in comfortable fashion, the breeze in my face and the summer daytime traffic having finally ebbed. Many in Cabot Cove will tell you their favorite day of the year is Labor Day, because that’s the time we get our streets back.
I hadn’t been riding as much as I normally do, with the summer heat to contend with during the day and mosquitoes at night, and I was feeling the effects of that when the Clifton Clinic bluffs came into view after I’d passed through the center of town. One thing I’d learned living on the coast was the difficulty in judging distances with no frame of reference between here and there. In this case, the bluffs looked only a stone’s throw away, but another mile covered on the two-lane coastal road that followed the town’s contours seemed to bring me no closer.
By the time my bike’s tires finally touched the narrow stone-paved road that led across the rocky bluffs to the clinic itself, I was questioning the wisdom of not simply walking down the street from Hill House and bringing the Uber app up on my phone. I guess I needed the time to figure out what I was going to say to Charles Clifton when I showed up unannounced, even though I knew all my preparations would be thrown out the window once I sat down before him. I couldn’t dictate my books; I had to type them. Similarly, I needed to be seated in front of somebody before I could actually form what I wanted to say to him or her.
Cruising through the clinic’s parking lot, though, drew me past a BMW 6-series coupe with a recently repaired windshield but still missing the passenger side mirror, meaning Jeffrey Archibald was on the premises as well.
An unexpected bonus.
* * *
• • •
Charles Clifton didn’t seem at all surprised by my arrival, coming to meet me in the lobby after being alerted to my presence by the same receptionist who’d been on duty the other night.
“You came alone, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, peering over my shoulder and perhaps spotting my bike perched against a stanchion outside the entrance. “I must say I’m a bit surprised, given how your last visit went.”
“Maybe that’s precisely why I came alone this time.”
“Not a social visit, I presume.”
“Not at all, Doctor. But I do have some advice for you.”
“What’s that?”
“You need a bike rack.”
* * *
• • •
“Flames without heat,” I said to Clifton, after he’d offered me a chair set before a desk in his spacious book-lined office, which would have made for a nice Victorian sitting room, right down to the ornamental gas fire glowing in the hearth built into the far wall. “Why
do I think if I stuck my hand into them, I’d still get burned?”
“Appearances can be deceiving, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Not in this case, I expect, Doctor. I think you’re everything your appearance suggests: shallow, superficial, and supercilious. You should feel free to invite Mr. Archibald to join us, by the way.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“Seeing his car in the parking lot was kind of a giveaway.”
Clifton nodded. “He warned me to expect you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Warned or told?”
“He said you were a difficult person to bring to your senses.”
“I guess he was dismayed when I rejected a lifetime supply of aspirin in exchange for letting all this go.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Actually, it was two lifetimes,” I said. “The fact is, Dr. Clifton, Mr. Archibald crossed a line with me.”
“Something you seem very comfortable doing yourself.”
“But this line was about family, when he mentioned my nephew Grady. That’s a red line for me.”
“As I suspect threatening his livelihood was to Mr. Archibald.”
“You mean because he’s engaged in illegal activities, in which you’re complicit, too? I must say it’s a brilliant scheme. Too bad Mimi Van Dorn had to go and ruin it. But I guess you couldn’t let her risk exposing the fact that she was being treated under a fake clinical trial with a drug she had to pay exorbitantly for. I put the amount at mid–six figures. Would that be about right, Doctor?”
“Does it really matter, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked with a sigh, looking impatient and almost bored.
“You mean the actual figure or Mimi’s life? The one thing I don’t understand is why you still provided her with the drug in spite of the warnings about its effects on those suffering from either type one or type two diabetes.” I studied his expression, saw enough to realize something I should have already. “You didn’t know, did you? You either never checked the potential side effects or brushed them aside and paid them no heed.”
Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Page 21