Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  “I can see what you mean,” Emmeline said. “He was a nice man.”

  “Do you think maybe he was in an illicit love affair?” Charlene asked. She always liked juicy stories.

  “He had a boyfriend,” I reminded her.

  “He had a stalker, too,” Selene said.

  My head swiveled to look at Selene. “A stalker? Who?”

  “I don’t know, but it was starting to worry him. He told me he was thinking of going to the police,” she said.

  “What was the stalker doing?” I asked, thinking of what Frederick had told me. We definitely needed to get over there and check the caller ID.

  “Lots of phone calls. Notes. Whoever it was would idle a boat just offshore sometimes at night. For hours.”

  I could feel my skin crawl. “Creepy.”

  “He also said whoever it was was trying to peek through the windows.”

  I ran through the women I knew on the island, trying to think who might have had an obsession with Fernand. Then I realized it might not be a woman.

  “Did he have any idea who it was?”

  She nodded. “He knew, but he wouldn’t say anything. Said he didn’t want to ruin anyone’s life.”

  I glanced at Catherine, to see how she was taking everything in. She was still crocheting, but she glanced up from time to time. I couldn’t read the expression on her face.

  “Did whoever it was ever tie up the boat and come in from the water?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say,” Selene said. “Why?”

  “Just wondering,” I said, thinking of the footprints leading to and from the water. I bent down, focusing on the wad of yarn I was pulling out of my bag. The wound on my hand was throbbing.

  Emmeline had just begun to say something when there was a low, moaning call from somewhere in the house.

  Claudette’s face paled, and she stood up quickly.

  The voice continued. It was a woman’s voice, but eerily childlike. “She’s here, isn’t she? Patricia is here. You brought her to torture me.”

  “Excuse me,” Claudette said, and hurried to the back of the house.

  “She doesn’t belong here.” The voice was rising into a wail. “She’s got to go. Can’t you see that? Someone has to stop her.”

  I heard Claudette’s voice, and then another wail from the back of the house. I glanced at Catherine, who had stopped crocheting. Her tweezed eyebrows had risen until they were almost at her hairline. Everyone looked at each other uneasily.

  Selene broke the silence. “Is that her daughter-in-law?”

  “I think so,” I said quietly.

  “What’s wrong?” Emmeline asked. “She was so charming at the party the other night.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.”

  There was another wail, and then silence, except for the sound of knitting needles.

  SIXTEEN

  THE REST OF THE knitting session passed without incident, although Claudette spent most of it in the back of the house with Dawn. She was usually a fast knitter, but I noticed she’d been working on the same sweater for weeks now. She must be spending all her time with the children or with her daughter-in-law.

  As the group filtered out, several of us offered Claudette help and support, but she politely refused all of it.

  “When do you think Eli will be back?” I asked Charlene as we stood outside Claudette’s house. Catherine had already gotten into the minivan, but I lingered a moment, despite the cold wind.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’m worried about Claudette—and what happened to their goats.”

  “You think whoever attacked Muffin and Pudge might go after Claudette?”

  “I don’t know, but it makes me worry.”

  “If I see him at the store, I’ll tell him to hurry home,” Charlene said. She glanced back at the house. A sharp wind kicked up the snow, and it whirled across the porch. “Claudette’s daughter-in-law sounds like she’s got some serious problems. Is she getting help?”

  “I hope so, for Claudette and Eli’s sake. That’s got to be hard to live with.”

  “And not great for the kids, either.”

  I had to agree with her. It must be tough to have a mother who was mentally ill. It was a good thing the children had Claudette and Eli. I glanced at the house again, and a movement caught my eye. Claudette’s daughter-in-law had pulled back the curtains and was staring at me, her eyes dark and haunted in her white face. There was something eerily childlike about it. Gooseflesh rose on my arms; then the curtain dropped, and she vanished. “She needs help,” I said.

  “Claudette? I know.”

  “The whole family,” I said, thinking of the disturbed woman whose face still lingered in my mind like a ghost.

  With a heavy heart, I said my goodbyes to Charlene and got into the van. As I turned the vehicle around to head home, Catherine said, “Well, that was interesting. I had no idea there was so much going on here.” She settled into her seat, then said, “Ready to go to Cliffside?”

  I turned to look at her. “Shouldn’t we call first?”

  “Do you have her number?”

  “No,” I confessed. “I don’t think anyone does.”

  “If I remember correctly, people just dropped by all the time when we were here.”

  “But she’s from New York,” I said.

  “If we can’t call, then of course we have to stop by,” she said. “What choice do we have?”

  I thought about the rest of my afternoon, which was swiftly slipping away. I really didn’t want to stop by Cliffside right now—but on the other hand, I was curious about Torrone and her relationship with Fernand. “I’ve got to swing by the store to pick up my order,” I said, “but dinner won’t take too long to put together. I think we’ve got time, but we can’t stay long.”

  I turned left instead of right at the end of Egg Rock Road. The route to the store passed the road to Fernand’s, and my heart tightened as we approached the familiar intersection. I had almost reached it when a beaten-up green pickup truck raced up the road, fishtailing as it pulled onto Egg Rock Road just in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and Catherine screamed as I braked and yanked the wheel to the right. The van began to skid, slewing around on the snowy road, and landed with a thud in a snowbank.

  I turned to Catherine, who was gripping the armrest of the seat with whitened knuckles. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Who was that insane driver?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, thinking that the truck looked familiar. I’d seen it recently; but where? “Charlene will be able to tell me,” I said. “She knows what everyone’s car looks like.”

  “People like that shouldn’t be allowed to drive,” she said.

  I opened the door and walked around the van to inspect the damage. Most of the cars here were dented, but my van was used for guests, and I needed it to look at least passably presentable.

  The front right corner was embedded in a snowbank, but I didn’t see any broken plastic or glass. I swiped at some of the snow; the metal looked smooth and unbuckled. I climbed back in and put the van in reverse; after pumping the gas a few times, we moved backward with a lurch. I shifted into park and got out to inspect the damage. The front bumper had a small new dimple, but other than that, the van was unscathed.

  “That was lucky,” Catherine said. “Still, you should pursue that driver for the damage. He didn’t even stop to give you his insurance information!”

  I bit back a laugh. On an island where doors and headlights were strictly optional, insurance was not exactly a priority. I nodded and put the van in drive, wondering about where that driver had been going in such a hurry—and how we were going to be received at the Torrone residence.

  It had been years since I’d visited Cliffside, which was perched on a hill with a commanding view of the water and the mainland beyond. With its imposing turret and hilltop position, it had always reminded me a bit
of a castle—which was a different look from the rest of the houses on the island. The last residents had experienced family tragedy, and I thought of what Emmeline said: that it was a bad luck house. Was that part of the reason it had been vacant for so long? John’s family seemed to have done okay there, though. Maybe it was just because they hadn’t stayed long—or maybe it was only a rumor.

  The long, curving driveway hadn’t been plowed, so I parked at the base of it. Someone had shoveled a path to the door, but it looked steep and slippery. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” I asked Catherine.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m quite fit.”

  And she was. By the time I was halfway up the sloping walkway, she was three-quarters of the way to the top and waiting for me.

  “How do you stay in such good shape?” I asked, panting.

  “Tennis,” she said. “And the gym in the winter months, of course.”

  Not exactly an option here on the island—not that I would have joined anyway. By the time we reached the imposing front door, my face felt as red as a tomato and I was breathing like an asthmatic in a field of ragweed.

  “Ready?” Catherine asked, her finger hovering over the doorbell.

  “I suppose so,” I wheezed, smoothing my hair back with gloved hands.

  She jabbed at the doorbell and stood erect in her Burberry coat, looking like the Boston Brahmin matron that she was. I searched for traces of John in her, but other than the brilliant green eyes and the tilt of her chin, there was little to link them together. I wondered how it was that they were so different, and wished I’d had the opportunity to meet John’s father. He had died of a heart attack the year before I met John.

  When nobody answered, she drew herself up and rang again. We stood for a long moment, waiting in the cold. I was about to suggest we give up when there was a click, and the door opened a few inches. Nina Torrone peered out. Without her sunglasses, she looked terribly young.

  My future mother-in-law’s face broke into a polite smile. “I am so very sorry to disturb you,” she said. “We would have called first, but your number isn’t listed.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Again, I am terribly sorry to disturb you this way. I know solitude is so important for artists, and I hate to intrude … but I was hoping you could do me a tiny little favor.”

  Nina’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  Catherine sighed. “Years ago, my family and I used to spend our summers in this house … it’s always been a favorite respite for me.” I blinked at her; from what John had told me, she hated the island. “Anyway,” she continued, “I am visiting my son on the island—John Quinton, he’s also an artist, although not nearly as accomplished as you—and I was hoping I might have a chance to take a look at the place. We have so many golden memories here,” she said with a radiant smile. “It would kill me to go home without visiting the house again.”

  Nina hesitated, but opened the door an inch more.

  “It’s frigid out here!” Catherine said. “Hard on my old bones.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; I’d just witnessed her “old bones” pumping up the hill at top speed. I had to hand it to her, though; she was giving a command performance. “Although being from New York, you must be used to cold weather. I promise we’ll only be a minute, and we won’t disturb you at all. And we won’t tell anyone you let us in.”

  “I’m not supposed to … I mean, we don’t have visitors.” But she opened the door a few inches more.

  “Oh, thank you, dear, for making an exception,” Catherine said, and took a step forward. Reflexively, Nina opened the door wider, and before she could protest, we were in.

  The entry hall was just as I remembered it from when the Katzes were in residence; even the furniture was the same, although the front hall table was covered with a thin film of dust. The house was cold, and had a deserted feel to it. Nina Torrone stood blinking in the middle of it, her fashionable attire of the party replaced by jeans and an NYU sweatshirt. Her hair was mussed, as if she had just woken up, and she looked incredibly young.

  “Thanks so much for letting us take a look at the house,” I said. “Is your agent here?”

  “Uh, no … but he’ll be back soon.” She glanced around nervously, reminding me not of an accomplished artist, but of a teenager whose parents would be returning at any moment. “I guess you can look around, but you’ll have to go fast. You should probably not be here when he gets back.”

  “This room looks almost identical to the way it was when we stayed here!” Catherine said, moving past us into the living room. “I like this rug better, though. The blues bring out the color of the walls. Wonderful view, don’t you think?” she asked as she looked out over the panoramic view of the dock and the island beyond. “Not as nice as from the back porches, though. Natalie, my dear, I’m surprised you didn’t snap this place up for your inn.”

  “It wasn’t for sale,” I said. In truth, I much preferred the Gray Whale Inn’s classic cape lines to the faux majesty of Cliffside. The views were lovely, though. Not that that was what interested me.

  Although the decor of the room was formal, with a rich Oriental rug and stylish chairs, the coffee table was littered with tabloid magazines and empty coffee cups. A manila envelope similar to the one I’d seen Gladstone and Torrone pick up at the store was open on the couch, beside a stack of what looked to be bills and letters. Nina spotted them at the same time I did, and hurried over to scoop them up.

  “So hard to get good help, isn’t it?” Catherine said with an understanding tone of voice. “I understand you’re here to focus on your work. Which room are you using for your studio?”

  She froze, hugging the pile of correspondence to her chest. “It’s upstairs,” she said.

  “Can I see?”

  “No!” she blurted. “No, no, no. You shouldn’t be here at all. I have to ask you to leave now.”

  “But we’ve only just arrived,” Catherine said. “I’ll only be a minute.” And with that regal way of hers, she swept past Nina into the kitchen. The young artist and I trailed after her

  “Sorry about that,” I murmured to the distressed artist. “She’s kind of a force of nature.”

  “As long as she stays downstairs,” Nina said. I stole a glance at the

  papers as she stuffed them into a drawer. One of them appeared

  to be a utility bill; New York Power and Light was emblazoned at the top of the page. Why did she feel the need to hide that? I wondered.

  “I understand you and Fernand knew each other,” I said as we watched Catherine admire the view from the kitchen window. Like the living room, this room was full of dirty dishes and stacks of newspapers—only in this room, it was the New York Times. Apparently Nina and her agent had widely differing reading tastes—or they had designated different rooms for different periodicals.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “But you studied under the same artist,” I said.

  A hand darted up to her face. The nails were polished a bright pink, and there was no stray paint on her hands. Either she was an unusually neat painter, or the art retreat wasn’t going as well as

  expected. Had she come here because she was undergoing an artistic crisis?

  “Fernand and I hardly knew each other,” she said.

  “Still, it must have been upsetting to learn that he had died.”

  That was enough to make her find her resolve. “You really must be going now,” she said. “I never should have let you in.”

  “All right,” Catherine sighed. “It has been a nice trip down memory lane. Very different in winter, though. More stark, somehow.” She surveyed the living room, then turned her critical eye on Nina. “You really should make your agent take better care of you. He should earn his 15 percent, don’t you think?”

  Nina Torrone’s eyes widened in fear. I wondered again what their relationship was.

  “I’m sure Natalie could help you find some good household help, if you
need it. She’s at the Gray Whale Inn—I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you stopped by sometime.”

  “You have to leave now,” she said, all but running to the front door. A cold blast of wind came through as she threw it open. “Goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Catherine said as she breezed through the door, her leather-soled boots clicking on the parquet floor. “Thank you again.”

  The door slammed behind us, and John’s mother looked at me. “She’s terrified of him,” she said, and began to head down the path.

  “Why?” I asked, hurrying after her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But she certainly didn’t want to invite us up to her studio, did she?”

  “No, she didn’t,”

  She said nothing else until we had reached the minivan. I turned the van around and headed back down the road, passing Gladstone, who was huffing with a New York Times under one arm and a bag of groceries in the other.

  “Do you think they’re having an affair?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’d know the signs of that.” There was a bitterness in her voice that I’d never heard before.

  “Why did you want to visit the house?” I asked.

  She stared straight ahead. “Because the last summer we stayed there was the last time John’s father and I were happy together.”

  SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS A QUIET ride back to the inn. I stopped briefly at the store to pick up my food order—Charlene wasn’t there, but her niece Tania helped me load up the van—before turning the van toward home. I wanted to ask more about what had happened after that last summer at Cliffside, but could sense her closing up as quickly as she’d revealed herself. She excused herself as soon as we got back into the inn, leaving me with several crates of groceries and as many unanswered questions.

  As I put away a box of mushrooms, I glanced at the clock. I was dying to go over to Fernand’s house with Frederick and see if we could find out who had been making harassing phone calls, but I needed to get dinner started. I also wanted to check in with John.