Brush with Death

by Karen MacInerney

  “Is that who I think that is?” I asked in a low voice, stealing a glance at the lobstermen at the counter. They were busy talking about another line-cutting episode, and didn’t seem to be paying attention.

  Charlene looked at me. “If you cut the hair and add a pillbox hat, I think so. See the little mole by her mouth?”

  “You’re right,” I said, focusing on the small beauty spot just above her lip. I hadn’t noticed it when I met her, but it was definitely there. I stared at the photo, trying to compute what I was seeing. Nina Torrone and Jennifer Salinas were the same person.

  TWENTY

  HOW COULD THAT BE?

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “It explains why Mr. Agent is so protective of her,” Charlene said in a low voice.

  “And why he never lets her speak—and high-tailed it up to Maine from New York.” I thought about it. “She never has paint on her hands.”

  “She’s probably not painting,” Charlene said, casting a glance at the lobstermen and speaking barely above a whisper, “because she’s not Nina Torrone.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in, and an unsettling thought presented itself. “If she’s not Nina Torrone,” I hissed, “then where is Nina Torrone?”

  Charlene’s face was grim. “I think that’s an excellent question.”

  “Does Nina Torrone have a page?” I asked.

  Charlene typed the name into Facebook, and one entry came up. She grimaced. “It’s a fan page—not run by the artist.”

  I leaned forward. “The photo looks remarkably similar,” I said. “Do you see a mole?”

  “Nope. The resemblance is eerie, though,” Charlene agreed. “Do you think she has two identities? Maybe she covered up the mole for the publicity shots.”

  “Why would she want a fake name?” I asked. I glanced at the men at the counter; they were discussing the best places to put lobster pots in December and seemed unaware of our conversation.

  “Privacy?”

  “If she wanted privacy, wouldn’t she come up here incognito—as Jennifer Salinas?” I thought about it. “When Catherine barged into Cliffside, she was very nervous—probably worried about being discovered. And there were all kinds of magazines, but nothing about art.”

  “You’re right—if she’s real but wanted privacy, she’d use the Jennifer Salinas name, wouldn’t she?”

  “You’d think. But if she’s not—if she’s an imposter—why go through the charade?” I asked.

  Charlene cocked a penciled eyebrow. “Maybe something bad happened to the real Nina Torrone.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “But wouldn’t that be in the news?”

  “Not if her agent covered it up,” she said. “If everyone knew something had happened to her, there’d be no need for a fake Nina Torrone.”

  “What would be his motivation?” I asked.

  “Money,” she said, with a glint in her eye. “What else? I know: let’s Google him, and see what we find out. Maybe he’s got a history.” She typed in the name Mortimer Gladstone, and a whole slew of pages came up. She clicked on the Wikipedia entry and let out a low whistle. “He’s cleaning up on Torrone’s work,” she said. “Her paintings are going for a million each.”

  “And commission is what—15 percent?” I asked.

  “Not bad work if you can get it,” Charlene said, scrolling through the page. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Torrone’s not his only high-stakes client.”

  “Who else?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “This sculptor named Anne Stokes.” Charlene clicked on a link and scanned the page. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “What?”

  Charlene gave me a meaningful look. “Evidently her sailboat went down about seven years ago, and she was lost at sea.”

  “How awful,” I breathed, thinking of the accidents that occasionally occurred off the coast here.

  “Wait—there’s more.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “They apparently had such a close relationship that she left her entire estate to him.” Charlene leaned back. “He must have made millions from her death.”

  “She didn’t have family?” I asked.

  “According to this,” she said, scrolling through the entry, “she was estranged from her parents.”

  “Like Fernand,” I said, gloomily. Then something occurred to me. “Look up Torrone on Wikipedia.”

  Charlene dutifully typed in her name.

  “Does it say anything about her family?”

  “Daughter of a moderately known painter who died about ten years ago. Grew up without her mother, who left the family when Nina was young.” Charlene looked at me. “Creepy.”

  “Yes.”

  Charlene hugged herself. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Goosebumps prickled my arms, and a sick feeling settled in my stomach. “Let’s discuss this in the back,” I said. I didn’t think the lobstermen were listening, but I didn’t want to take chances. “We should talk to her,” I said when the door closed behind us.

  “If it’s what we think it is, I think she already knows. She’s clearly in on the scam.”

  “But she may not know this happened before. And that the artist was ‘lost at sea’.”

  “No body to identify,” Charlene mused. “Although if there was someone acting as the artist, maybe she just picked up her old life.”

  “She’s still a liability if she does that,” I said, not liking the direction my mind was heading.

  Charlene shivered. “You think he’s going to kill her?”

  “We’re on an island, right?” I asked. “And as long as she’s alive, she can blackmail him.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, listening as the wind moaned around the corners of the store. I could hear the voices of the lobstermen through the door, but only faintly. “If we’re right and it was a scam, what do you think happened to the real Nina Torrone?” Charlene asked, her eyes big.

  I shivered. “Wherever she is, she sure isn’t here. Do you really think he might have killed her? And that other artist?”

  “I can’t come up with another explanation,” Charlene said. “Maybe she died suddenly, and he realized the gravy train was about to dry up.”

  “So he came up with an impostor and then drowned her so there would be no body to find?”

  “Or just sent her away,” Charlene said.

  “It doesn’t explain why two of his clients died unexpectedly.”

  “Assuming Torrone is dead,” Charlene said.

  I leaned against a stack of ramen noodle boxes. “If Jennifer Salinas is taking her place, then I can’t come up with another explanation.”

  “Fernand was giving her a funny look at the party,” Charlene said. “And her reaction when he handed her that drink was strange.”

  “I know he had several articles about her at his house. I saw them the day I took Frederick over there.”

  “Think he suspected she wasn’t who she said she was?” Charlene asked.

  “If she was a fake, he’d know—they studied under the same mentor. There’s a problem, though,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The thing is, if the same person who killed Fernand went after Gwen, what was the motive?”

  Charlene shrugged an emerald-clad shoulder. “Maybe Fernand was killed because he knew Torrone was a fake—and Gwen saw something she shouldn’t have.”

  “If this has anything to do with Torrone, Catherine and I saw more than we should have. We barged into the place.”

  “But Gladstone doesn’t know you were there, does he?”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Jennifer wouldn’t have told him; she seemed afraid he’d find out we were there.” I thought about it for a moment. “If Gwen knew something, though, she never said anything to me.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t realize what she saw,” Charlene said.

  I had a bad feeling about this. “This is all speculation,” I said,
trying to make myself feel better.

  “Tell you what. Have John check and see if Gladstone’s got a record,” Charlene said. “Violent criminals often have a history.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “But what do we do about Torrone—I mean, Jennifer Salinas—in the interim?”

  “Warn her?” Charlene asked.

  “We’re still not sure of what really happened—it’s all speculation.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Charlene said.

  “I can see that. But if we warn her, she’ll know we’re onto her—and if she breathes a word of it to Gladstone, that might spur him to get rid of her sooner than later.”

  “We’ve got to try,” Charlene said. “Don’t you think?”

  As much as I hated to face it, she was right.

  But how were we supposed to do it?

  _____

  I walked out of the store ten minutes later, deep in thought. I was dying to go and talk with Nina/Jennifer immediately, but Charlene had made me promise not to. “Let’s find out what we know about Gladstone first,” she said. “If we’re right, it’s too dangerous to just knock on the door and tell her.”

  “How do we warn her, then?”

  “I’m sure one more day won’t hurt,” Charlene said. I wasn’t so sure, but told her I’d wait at least until I’d had a chance to talk with John.

  I turned the key in the ignition and fastened my seatbelt, shivering despite my winter coat. As I was about to back out of the parking place, I heard another engine roar to life: it was the green pickup truck.

  Curiosity flared in me, and I waited until he’d pulled out and turned out of the lot before putting the van in reverse and following him.

  As I pulled out onto road, hanging back from the pickup truck, I wondered what I was doing—and what I hoped to accomplish by following Rob. When he turned right onto Seal Point Road, I felt my heart contract, and turned in after him. The road curved, and I lost sight of him for a while behind the stands of trees that were thick along the narrow strip of roadway, but I wasn’t surprised when I rounded the last bend and found the truck idling outside Fernand’s house.

  There was no way I could turn around without attracting attention, and since Fernand’s house was at the end of the road, it was the only likely destination, so I went ahead and parked next to the truck. I expected it to pull out and go tearing down the road, but it didn’t.

  I got out of the van and slowly walked around the front of it. Rob was bent over the steering wheel, his body shaking with sobs.

  Not knowing what to do, I stood at the front of the van and waited until he looked up. When his eyes met mine, there was a flash of fear, then a heartrending mix of resignation and grief.

  Instinctively, I closed the distance between us and knocked gently on the window. I held my breath and waited, half-expecting him to put the truck in reverse and peel out, but after a moment, he opened the door and stepped out of the truck, looking at the ground as he shut the door, then jamming his hands in his pockets. We stood there for a moment, the wind stealing our breath away.

  “I miss him, too,” I finally said quietly, when the wind died down for a moment.

  He looked up at me, a darting glance filled with misery. He was skin and bones, his hair unkempt, his jeans smudged with dirt. I found myself wondering if this was normal for him, or if this was a grief response. “Don’t say anything to anyone,” he said, a desperate tone in his voice.

  “I won’t,” I assured him.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, kicking the tire of the truck.

  I stood quietly, feeling as if I were near a spooked animal. I didn’t want to say anything to scare him off.

  “Why would he kill himself?” he asked. “I could have been there for him. He knew I would have been. Why wouldn’t he let me in?” His face was a mask of misery. “I was here that last night, you know. After the party. I went home and had a drink, then finally screwed up my courage to talk to him. I tied up out there,” he said, waving a hand toward the back of the house, “and walked up to the back door.” His eyes were focused on something far away, as if he were reliving the scene. “He was already with someone, though, so I left.”

  “Who?” I asked, feeling my heartbeat pick up. That explained the footprints—but had he seen who was with Fernand the night he died?

  “I couldn’t tell who—the windows were too foggy, and his back was to me,” he said. “But they were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking something. Laughing. I could tell it was another man. He was big, with dark hair.” He sounded miserable.

  Big, with dark hair, and laughing. That could describe Gladstone. But it could also describe about half of the island’s male population. And Frederick, too, come to think of it. “Did it look like it might have been Scotch?” I asked, thinking of the doctored drink.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I lost my nerve and went back to the boat. I wish I hadn’t, though. I didn’t know it would be my last chance.” He looked up at me again. “Don’t tell anyone. The guys wouldn’t understand. Please.”

  “I won’t,” I said again, and took a deep breath. “You were his secret admirer, weren’t you?” The wind kicked up again, carrying my words away.

  He snorted, making puffs of dragonlike smoke that the wind whirled away. “Sounds like something out of junior high school. Yes, I was.” He glanced up at me, and again I saw that fear in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you all of this. You can’t tell anyone. If they knew …”

  “I promised I wouldn’t say anything,” I said, wondering why he was so worried about people knowing he was attracted to Fernand. Sara and Terri were “out,” after all, and it didn’t seem to be a problem, except for a few islanders. On the other hand, Fernand’s family had disowned him. And I knew that men for some reason had a harder time accepting gay men than lesbians.

  I turned the conversation back to the house, which felt empty even from where we were standing. I glanced at it, my heart contracting at the sight of the wreath on the door—a decoration for a holiday that Fernand would never have a chance to celebrate. “Were you the one who broke in the other day?” I asked.

  He dropped his head and his shoulders slumped. “Yes. I was looking for some letters I wrote to him.”

  “I saw you when you left,” I said. “You were in a pretty big hurry.”

  “That was your van I almost hit?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  “No harm done,” I said gently. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No,” he shook his head abruptly. “I have no idea where they are. I knew I never should have sent them.”

  “You know the police are thinking he might have been murdered,” I told him, watching his reaction.

  His head jerked up. “Murdered?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head, looking mystified. “I don’t understand. Who would have killed Fernand?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me that,” I said. “Had he argued with anyone that you knew of?”

  “Not that I saw,” he said, “but again, it’s not like we talked or anything. I just sat on the sidelines, wishing …” Again, a forlorn look passed over his face.

  “I think we’ve all been there,” I said gently.

  He folded his arms as if closing himself off again, then turned toward the truck. “I gotta go,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “If you ever need to talk …”

  He shrugged his shoulders and got into his truck. Pity stirred in my heart as I watched as he drove up Seal Point Road. It must be awful to feel you had to hide who you were—and I knew the pain of losing someone you cared about must be even harder when you felt you couldn’t share your grief. I hoped he would someday feel safe enough to come out.

  At least I’d solved the mystery of the footprints and the break-in, I reflected as I climbed back into the van and closed the door behind me. I just wished
he’d gotten a better glimpse of whoever was having drinks with Fernand the night he died.

  I stared at the lonely house, wishing there were some way to make it speak to me—to tell me what had happened that cold winter night. Who had killed Fernand? It didn’t appear to be his sister—after all, Rob had told me it was a man who was with him the night he died. Had Torrone’s agent come back the night he died?

  If only walls could talk.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I HURRIED HOME TO look for John, but he wasn’t in his workshop or the carriage house; he’d left me a note telling me that he was headed to the mainland. Catherine wasn’t there, either—evidently she’d joined him on the mail boat. Detective Penney’s card was on the top of the desk; I called her number and left a message, asking her to tell John to call me—and requesting that she do a criminal background check on Mortimer Gladstone.

  I hung up feeling uneasy. Gwen had been attacked yesterday, and the police were starting to investigate Fernand’s death as a murder. Were both issues linked to the fake artist?

  If only I had some proof.

  Then I remembered the slip of paper I’d found in Fernand’s parka pocket the other day. I hurried to the coat hook in the kit-chen and fished in the pocket for it. The address was familiar, of course—because it was the New York address on the utility bills Torrone had been receiving. I hurried to the computer and typed in the web site; it was an account of the death of Gladstone’s first client. The one who had drowned offshore and never been recovered.

  Despite the warm radiator and the cat weaving around my ankles, I felt suddenly cold. Fernand had known—or suspected—what Gladstone was up to.

  I stared at the screen and reached down to pet Biscuit, trying to figure out how everything was connected. If Gladstone had attacked Gwen, there must have been a reason. But what was it? She hadn’t remembered anything … but maybe she didn’t realize what she’d heard.

  I called the hospital, praying that Gwen would be awake. Adam answered, and handed the phone off to my niece.

  “Aunt Nat?” Her voice sounded bright; my heart swelled with gratitude that she was okay.