The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  Jason wasn’t going to argue. It had been eight hours from LAX to ART, and he had not managed to sleep at all on the plane—on top of not sleeping the night before. It had taken practically as long to arrange for the car rental as to drive from Watertown to Cape Vincent, and he’d already lost three hours traveling west to east. By the time he arrived at the boat rental facility, he was tired, ever so slightly jetlagged, and—as it was only lunchtime—still facing a full day’s work.

  There was no general store—or any store—on the island. At the helpful reminder of Mrs. Seaport Sloops, he stocked up on enough groceries to see him through lunch, dinner, and a possible breakfast: a small bag of freshly ground coffee, a pint of milk, a couple of cans of soup, a package of dubious-looking mini “blueberry” muffins, and a frozen beef stroganoff dinner.

  “The FBI!” Mrs. Seaport Sloops beamed, ringing up Jason’s purchases. She was a medium-sized woman with frizzy brown hair and purple fingernails as long and curving as a storybook Chinese mandarin. “I guess you can’t tell us what you’re here for?”

  “Just routine follow-up stuff.”

  She laughed. “But routine follow-up on what stuff?”

  Jason was amused at her unashamed curiosity but shook his head.

  She was unfazed. “Taxes, I bet. That’s what it usually is with those folks.”

  “Which folks?”

  “Island folks.” She finished bagging his groceries. “Rich folks. I sure hope you don’t get seasick. That water’s rough today. Beautiful weather though.”

  Jason glanced out the window at the cold and drizzling day. “Is it?”

  “Sure. We’re having a warm spell. It was snowing last week. You want to add some Dramamine to your groceries?”

  “I don’t get seasick.”

  Which was true, but in any case, the boat ride across to the island, though wet and cold, was quick.

  Mr. Seaport Sloops—or Bram, as he instructed Jason to call him—was tall, wiry and talkative. His eyes were gray. His hair too, prematurely so. He offered a quick rundown of the three-mile-long island and its inhabitants without being asked. In fact, shutting him up would have been the challenge.

  “You can’t hardly see the house behind the trees and fog, but those chimneys off the port side belong to the Hoveys. They’ve been here the longest. There have been Hoveys for as far back as anyone can remember. It’s just Caroline Hovey now. Caroline Durrand, I should say. She’s been living here since she and the old man separated back in 1980.”

  “She lives on the island alone?”

  “Sure.” Bram’s tone was dry. “All on her own. Not counting the cook, the housekeeper, the gardener-chauffeur, and two maids.”

  “That’s a lot of servants for one little old lady,” Jason said, as if he’d never heard of such a thing as household staff.

  “It sure is. Of course, used to be the sons spent a lot of time here. Especially during the summer. And way back in the day, the Hoveys used to hold house parties and so forth. Believe it or not, once upon a time this island was haven for the rich and famous. They’d come all the way out here to fish and play golf.” Bram grinned, as if entertained by the foibles of the wealthy.

  Jason studied the green, heavily forested shoreline wreathed in thready mist. “It looks deserted.”

  “Not far from it. There are thirteen year-round residents. You gotta love peace and quiet. It’s too out of the way for most people.” Bram added, “There’s the ruins of an old fort on the other side of the island. The British used this place as a naval station. They’d build their ships here and then raid the coast.”

  “That’s a lot of history for such a little island.”

  “It is. You can find lots of artifacts and interesting stuff if you poke around.” He glanced at Jason and added hastily, “Of course, it’s illegal to take anything away. I know that.”

  “It’s illegal on federal land. This island is privately owned.”

  Reassured that Jason and Uncle Sam were not going to snatch his collection of arrowheads or tin cans or whatever it was he was hoarding, Bram relaxed. “We used to come out here all the time to explore when we were kids. There are a couple of graveyards near the fort.”

  “Graveyards?” That caught Jason’s attention.

  “Sure. Twenty-five military graves lie outside the north wall of the fort. The civilian graveyard is a little east of the fort. Then you’ve got the Indian burial grounds clear on the other side of the island.” He smiled. “These days they’ve got more dead residents than live ones on Camden Island.”

  Jason nodded. “The Durrand sons don’t visit anymore?”

  “They come to see the old lady sometimes. They live in California now. That’s where the old man was from. Some place up north. Wine and cattle country. Barnaby comes out more than Shep. Somebody told me he’s out here now. I wouldn’t know. They dock their boats at Trudell’s Marina these days.”

  “What about the other son?”

  “Shep? I haven’t seen Shep in years. But then the estate will go to Barnaby, so I guess it makes sense he keeps an eye on it.”

  They rounded a rocky promontory, white rocks like a skeletal foot jutting out into restless, dark water. In the distance, Jason spotted a man—or at least a burly figure—carrying what appeared to be an ax. He was headed toward the winter-bare woods and away from the ruins of a large house.

  House? Castle was probably as accurate. Four stories of what looked from a distance to be solid stone. A castle as imagined by Salvador Dalí. Right down to a giant gray and blue disk—was that really a clock face?—lying upturned in the tall grass.

  “What’s that place?” Jason asked Bram.

  Bram glanced indifferently at the fog-shrouded shoreline. “Camden Castle. That’s what people around here call it, anyway.”

  The man with the ax vanished into the deep surrounding woods. Jason went back to studying the structure. As architecture went, it looked like a cross between the House That Jack Built and Hogwarts. “Is that a clock tower?”

  “What’s left of it. If you look carefully, you can see the clock itself still lying in the garden. Lightning struck the tower a few years ago, so they dismantled it before the clock took out the whole roof. It wouldn’t take much. The whole place is falling down.”

  Pale smoke wisped from one of the tall chimneys, rising like a question mark against the slate clouds. “Somebody still lives there.”

  “Sure. Eric Greenleaf. He’s the last of the line. At least for now. He had a kid with a girl in town. Melanie Foster. Claims she tricked him into it. He pays support but won’t recognize the kid as his own. I guess he could still marry and have a family, but I can’t imagine who would want to live out here with him.”

  Jason nodded politely as Bram continued the good-natured gossip and slander of his neighbors.

  “How many full-time residents did you say are on the island?” Jason asked when he could insert a comment.

  Bram automatically corrected the tiller, heading for a distant dock looking silver in the stormy light. “If you mean households, four. The Hoveys, the Greenleafs, the Patricks, and the Jeffersons. Thirteen people. The rest of the houses are summer homes or vacation rentals.”

  Meaning if Jason ran into trouble, he’d be at least half an hour away from help. Not that he could picture a scenario where Barnaby turned violent.

  They reached the short dock and found two other boats moored there: a pontoon and a small aluminum fishing boat.

  “Who do these belong to?” Jason asked.

  “The Lund belongs to Pat Patrick. The pontoon goes with the cottage to your leeside.”

  Jason considered what he could see of a gray roof, shingles wet with fog, half-hidden behind tall evergreens.

  “Is anyone staying at the cottage?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. We don’t own that property.”

  Bram tied up the boat, and they clambered onto the dock and walked up to the “lodge,” Jason shouldering his carryall and clutc
hing his meager bag of groceries.

  The holiday rental was a long box of tall, narrow windows and green siding. A fieldstone chimney capped one end of the building and a large screened-in sleeping porch the other.

  Bram unlocked the front door. “Home sweet home.”

  Jason stepped inside and set his bags down. The place smelled musty but clean, scented of a million summer vacations: a blend of fish, wet towels, fading potpourri, and disinfectant. It was chilly and a little damp, but Bram flicked a switch and the heater rumbled into life, gusting hot, stale air through the vents.

  “This is great. Thanks for the ride—” Jason reached for his wallet, but Bram waved him off.

  “No, no. It’s all part of the service. Let me show you around.”

  The grand tour began with the small, dark wood kitchen.

  Bram pointed to an ancient-looking machine. “Coffee maker—”

  “Thank God,” murmured Jason. As long as the thing turned on, he’d be happy.

  Bram thumped an oak cupboard door. “Dishes. Utensils in the drawer. Dishwasher, microwave, oven, refr—”

  “Thanks. This is great. I’m sure I can find everything.”

  Bram would not be deterred, leading the way into the next room. “I guess it must be pretty exciting working for the FBI?”

  “Good days, bad days,” Jason said. “Like any job.”

  “Have you worked any high-profile crimes? Anything I’d have read about?”

  “I doubt it,” Jason said.

  Bram grinned. “Have you ever caught any serial killers?”

  Thanks to television, most people thought the FBI spent all its time chasing kidnappers and serial killers.

  “Me? No. My team mostly follows paper trails. I spend a lot of time examining old documents.”

  “I see.” Bram smiled, clearly not believing this for a second. “Here’s the family room. You can see we’ve got lots of games, puzzles, and books. My wife loves to read, so all her castoffs end up here. Romances mostly. Stereo, TV, DVD player—we’ve got a great video library. Let me think…” He brightened. “We’ve got Silence of the Lambs, Manhunter, Hannibal, Suspect Zero, and Red Dragon. And one other one about the FBI. I forget… Oh, Heat. We love that one. We love that Sandra Bullock!”

  Did Bram think FBI agents only watched movies about FBI agents? Jason said gravely, “I know what I’ll be doing tonight.” And that, hopefully, would be sleeping. Deeply. Dreamlessly.

  “It’s too cold this time of year for swimming or snorkeling, but there’s the outdoor grill, and you’ve got the kayak—”

  “Sounds like the perfect vacation.” Jason stayed patient. “I wish I could spend an extra day or two.”

  “Smuggling, I bet.” Bram watched him shrewdly. “With Canada right across the water? Yeah. It’ll be smuggling. Off the record?”

  “Off the record?” Jason winked. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Right. Right. Well, if anything goes wrong, there’s the phone. Your cell phone will work too. Mostly. It depends on your carrier, of course. When you’re ready to come back, you can borrow the pontoon. If you’re not comfortable driving a boat, I’ll come fetch you.”

  “I grew up on boats. That’s not a problem.”

  Bram seemed reluctant to leave, but at last he ran out of instructions, information, and gossip, and was forced to bid Jason so long.

  Jason watched Bram’s motorboat grow small, smaller, and then speck-sized in the misty distance. Good. Now maybe he could finally get to w—

  His cell phone rang, the sound startling in the profound silence. He glanced at the ID and sighed. Charlotte. Sister #1. The family diplomat. He clicked to answer.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Working.”

  “I didn’t ask what you’re doing. You’re always working. Where are you working?” At fifty-four, Charlotte was old enough to be his mother and had spent the last thirty-three years not letting him forget it for a moment. Granted, Sophie was old enough to be his mother too, but that technicality was not something she wanted to advertise.

  “I’m in New York. As a matter of fact, I’m on Camden Island in Cape Vincent.”

  “Cape Vincent? Isn’t that right across from Canada?”

  He said patiently, “Was there something you needed?”

  “I saw that photo of you in the Valley Voice. I hope to God you’re not still planning to take part in any undercover operations.”

  “No plans at the moment.” Those swift approaching clouds were looking more and more like rain. He began to mentally calculate how long it would take to walk to the Hovey estate. According to Bram, the island was ninety percent woodland, but in addition to tons of smaller trails and shortcuts, a walking path surrounded the entire island.

  “Did you tell Sophie it was okay for her to go ahead and organize a big party for your birthday next week?”

  Jason’s attention abruptly refocused on Charlotte, the bearer of bad news. “No, I sure did not.”

  “Well, she seems to think you gave her the go-ahead, and she’s putting together a dinner party at Capo Restaurant.”

  This was another thing you never saw on TV or the movies. The FBI agent throwing a fit about his birthday party plans.

  “I told her I did not want a big thing made of my birthday.”

  “Well, I do kind of see her point. Mom and Dad aren’t getting any younger—”

  “Would you two stop saying that?”

  “—and, after all, you did nearly get yourself killed last year, so even though it’s an off number, maybe it’s all right to make a little bit of a fuss.”

  “I don’t want a fuss.”

  “I know. I’ll try to rein her in, but since there is going to be a small—very small, hopefully—party, there’s someone I’d really love you to meet. His name’s Alexander, and he teaches art at UCLA. He and his partner split up a year ago, and he’s just getting back into the dating game. I did the redesign on his dining room. He’s a lovely, lovely guy, and I really think you two would hit it off.”

  Jason had been listening to this with mounting exasperation. “Charlie, I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now. I’m working. I’m in the middle of a case.”

  “Well, you won’t be working next Thursday. It’s not a date. In fact, he can come as my date.”

  “Come as your…”

  “My date-friend. He’s definitely gay. There’s no pressure. I simply think you’d really hit it off. Wouldn’t you like to meet someone?”

  He expelled a quick, exasperated laugh. “No.”

  “Well, you should. All work and no play. Etcetera. Etcetera. Seriously, though. Life is too short.”

  “Here it comes. And I’m not getting any younger either.”

  Charlie laughed. “You? You’re still a baby. There’s no rush.”

  “Well, there kind of is.” Jason staunchly ignored the “baby” comment. “I really am in the middle of something right now, so we’ll have to talk about it when I get back later in the week.”

  “Later in the week when? Do you need me to go by your place and water the house plants?”

  He was hoping for the swift demise of those house plants—he was not an exotic orchids kind of guy—and in any case, he didn’t like the idea of anyone, even his sister, wandering through his home when he wasn’t there. Working for the Bureau made everyone a little paranoid, and Jason was no exception.

  “No need. I’m hoping I can get out of here tomorrow—assuming I ever get off the phone and accomplish what I came here to do.”

  “Okay, point taken.” Charlotte sounded like she was humoring a small and cranky child. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “No, you don’t, but that’s what sisters are for. Let me know as soon as you get back, will you?”

  That final request, he understood. His loved ones were jumpy about his safety after he’d nearly been
shot to death when an undercover operation went disastrously wrong. They had never been happy about his decision to join the Bureau, and his close call had done nothing to change their minds.

  “Will do,” he said neutrally, and disconnected.

  It didn’t take long to change into a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt for the interview he hoped he’d be having within the hour. He had originally anticipated this interview taking place in the Fletcher-Durrand New York gallery, but the navy blazer he’d brought wasn’t warm enough for a hike through the wintery woods. He opted for his FBI jacket, and hoped he wouldn’t tip Durrand off from a mile away.

  In fact, that was another thing that annoyed him about how the Bureau was portrayed in film and TV. Wardrobe. Apparently, Hollywood had never heard of polo shirts and chinos. Let alone jeans when they made sense—which today they did. Hollywood FBI agents wore suits and ties regardless of weather. And even if the men were right, the women always dressed like classy hookers or college students.

  He checked his weapon, rechecked his weapon, and set off through the woods.

  Thanks to the helpful and garrulous Bram, he knew where he was headed, and the brisk cedar-scented cold air revived his energy and determination. Unfortunately, the long silent walk also gave him too much time to think about things that had nothing to do with the job.

  At least, he didn’t believe they had anything to do with the job. But adding to his general disquiet was the growing certainty that Kennedy had deliberately staged things the way he had to minimize how much fallout he had to deal with from Jason. He had profiled Jason from the first, and he continued to profile him. He knew that by framing their breakup—if you could call it that—in a professional context, Jason’s behavior was automatically constrained.

  Whether it came down to the difference in their ages or job titles or just their very different personalities, Kennedy knew that Jason would cue off him. That it would be all but impossible for Jason to do other than follow his lead on this.

  Not that Jason had wanted a big scene, but a little emotional honesty would have been nice. Would have helped him understand. He deeply resented feeling that he had been manipulated. Not in the relationship itself—although, maybe—but in how Kennedy had decided to terminate things.