HIS BODY INSULATED AGAINST the cold in layer upon layer of thermal clothing, Donny Pease forced his stiff fingers to untie the line tethering his boat to the Manatuck City dock. Quickly he pulled his gloves back on and shifted into gear. He heard the engine’s thunk of protest, and then a steady chugging sound as he steered the boat away from land.
He gave a rapid scan of the sky, a habit that was as much a part of him as his daily bowl of lumpy oatmeal. Even though he was only headed across the harbor on this brisk Thursday morning, more to keep his boat in use than anything else, Donny assessed the weather, noting steely gray clouds clumped like wet wool in the distance. Snow on the way—but not for a day or two, he predicted. He stomped his feet and steered toward the Curtis T, a red lobster boat bobbing just past the Breakwater.
Donny slowed the motor as the Curtis T came in sight. A short, plump figure dressed in orange waders peered up from the boat’s transom, frowning, a long hooked stick called a gaff clutched in her hands.
“What the hell you doing here, Pease?” The woman barking out the question had the wizened brown face of someone who’d spent decades exposed to the sun, salt, and sea breezes, all of which had combined to transform her skin into something resembling ancient leather. “Thought I told you to leave me alone.”
Donny gave an easy grin. “Now Carlene, you know I’m out here anyway.” Donny ran a water taxi, mostly in the good weather months, managed several island properties for absentee owners, and worked as a general handyman for the Hurricane Harbor Inn.
“Thought I’d see if you needed a hand.”
“I don’t need a hand, and I most certainly don’t want yours.” She spat off the side of the Curtis T for emphasis. “I wouldn’t trust a Pease if my life depended on it. You just want to see what I’m bringing over the rail is all.” Her grandfather, Moses Ross, and Donny’s great-uncle, Thaddeus Pease, had fought over a piece of land on Hurricane Harbor forty years earlier, and Carlene Ross was in no way ready to call a truce. She narrowed her beady black eyes and shook the gaff at him. “Go on home to your skinny bitch of a bride, Pease!”
Donny nearly chuckled at Carlene’s description of Tina, his fiancée, who was indeed on the thin side and known to have her grumpy spells. Instead he kept his face expressionless, watching as his distant cousin reached over the side of the boat with the gaff. He slid his boat into neutral.
Carlene hooked the line of a striped red and black lobster buoy—her unique color scheme—and pulled it toward the boat. She held tight to the line and began hauling it up, her stout body surprisingly strong for its size.
Unlike the other lobstermen in the harbor, Carlene rejected the ease of modern hydraulics. She was just stubborn enough to prefer the old method of hauling traps by hand. Donny saw the rusty square metal cage lurch to the surface, streaming with water, before Carlene hoisted it up and into the boat. It landed with a thump on the deck, the pungent odor of bait filling the air.
A grunt of satisfaction escaped Carlene’s chapped lips. She opened the trap and extracted two squirming lobsters, both of which she carefully measured. Nodding, she secured rubber bands to their claws and placed them gently into a live-tank. Checking the trap for bait, she closed it and heaved it once more over the side.
“Go on, now, get away from my boat.” Her voice was quieter, her relief at capturing a few crustaceans having cooled her anger. She tugged on her wool hat with two hands, jerking it down over her reddened ears. “Let’s hope you got better things to do than spending your Thursday watching me fish.”
Donny shrugged. “Hoping I can get you to catch some for me for tomorrow’s supper,” he said. “We need ten or so.”
She looked up at him with annoyance, but Donny thought he detected a bit of interest as well. “Let’s see what I find in the next trap before I go promising anything,” she muttered.
Carlene slammed the Curtis T into gear and sped 100 yards away toward another red and black buoy. Donny followed at a slower pace. He came alongside the weathered lobster boat and tied a loose line to keep the vessels together.
Carlene bent over the side of the Curtis T. Donny saw her powerful body grasp the line and tug to bring up the trap. She yanked once more on the line and snorted in anger.
“Damn thing.” She heaved hard on the line, yielding nothing.
Donny checked to be sure he was idling before hopping over the side of his boat and into Carlene’s. “Lemme help.”
She scowled but allowed him to grab the line as well. Together they pulled on the thick rope, but again it did not budge.
“Ledge, most likely,” muttered Carlene. Donny realized it was the first thing she’d ever said to him that was not an epithet.
“Put her in gear and ease forward,” he suggested. “I’ll hang on and jerk it free.”
Carlene gave a curt nod and shuffled in her waders to the controls. The engine clunked as she coaxed it to move slowly, her eyes on Donny as he yanked on the line.
“It’s free,” he shouted. “Put ’er back in neutral and come back and help me haul.”
Another thunk of the engine and Carlene was back at his side, heaving the line toward the surface.
“Good Lord in heaven but it’s heavy,” Carlene huffed. “What in the blazes is down there?” Her face was red, the future color of the captured crustaceans, scrabbling now with their banded claws against the sides of the tank in an effort to escape.
Donny took a quick look around to be sure their boats were not drifting. They were closer to the mammoth granite blocks of the Manatuck Breakwater than he would prefer, but whatever was down there was acting as an anchor for the Curtis T. He gave a good yank on the line and felt the weight finally move.
“Okay, pull!” Donny instructed.
Hauling the line with Carlene’s help, he saw the corner of the rusted trap lurch toward the surface, along with something that looked a lot like somebody’s winter boot.
“What in God’s good name …”
Carlene screamed and let go of the line. It took all of Donny’s strength to hang on himself, and then even more muscle to heave the trap upward once more. The boot they had spotted was now in plain sight. Donny noted the laces, the rugged rubber sole, and the waterlogged leg that was wearing it.
A leg.
Donny swallowed, his horror mounting, as he continued to pull on the rope. Who was this poor sonofabitch, and why was he tangled in the trap?
A torso came to the surface. A torso, wearing winter outerwear, connected to a bloated face and head. The head rotated, almost as if it was turning to say something, and Donny choked back a scream. He saw a face, a thin face, framed by strands of dark, wet hair, a face that had once been moderately attractive and was now twisted in a permanent sneer of pain.
“Christ—I know her,” Carlene whispered, her voice sounding as if it would break completely. “It’s that girl, the one who used to work for Doc Hotchkiss.” She turned away and Donny had to strain to hear her strangled hiss. “It’s one of the Delvecchio girls.” She shoved her hands inside her orange overalls. “Dead, ain’t she?”
Donny secured the line to a cleat, taking his time so that the knot held, and forced his eyes to look once more at the misshapen face. He felt nausea rising like a tide in his gut but refused to give into it. Carlene was right; he had seen that face when he’d fractured his ulna after falling from a ladder four years ago last March. The woman had worked in the doctor’s office, answering the phone and making the patients’ appointments. Donny recalled that she’d snapped her gum while she wrote out those little reminder cards. What in heck was her name?
“She’s dead alright,” he affirmed, his voice sounding a lot stronger than he felt.
He reached for Carlene’s radio, prepared to call in their grisly catch. The harbormaster would come out in the city’s boat, no doubt bringing the Manatuck police as well. It would be in the papers, and he’d have to tell the story to everyone at his favorite bar, The Eye of the Storm, again and again and again. He
switched on the radio, just as his memory tossed up the missing piece of the woman’s identity.
“Lorraine,” he intoned in the stout woman’s direction. His eyes flitted back to the waterlogged corpse, draped over the lobster trap like a bulky old overcoat. “This poor soul’s Lorraine Delvecchio.”
TWO
TWO-TWENTY COVE ROAD WAS a low white farmhouse with a wide front porch framed by twin sugar maples, their limbs now bare and gray against the gunmetal sky. Darby Farr pulled into the driveway behind a new SUV, hearing the crunch of her rented Jeep Liberty’s tires on the hard-packed ice. She’d caught the red eye from San Diego, rented a car to drive up the coast, and then taken the ferry from Manatuck to Hurricane Harbor. Although most people would be exhausted from hours spent traveling, Darby Farr was energized to be back on the Maine island where she’d been raised.
She turned off the ignition. The old farmhouse was her childhood home, the sugar maples the same ones she’d tapped for syrup more than a decade earlier. The place looked abandoned in the dull afternoon light, until a worried face topped by curly red hair popped into one of the farmhouse door’s sidelights. A moment later, tall, thin, Tina Ames bounded out of the house, slid perilously on the ice, and yanked open the Jeep’s door.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she blurted, giving the twenty-eight-year-old a vice-like hug. Darby embraced her right back, feeling the redhead’s ribs dig into her own, despite the fact that they were both wearing thick winter coats.
“Of course I’m here. Did you think I’d miss your wedding?”
A shy grin broke out on Tina’s face. “No one would have blamed you if you did. I know how busy you are, Darby. And yet you came clear across the country, into freezing cold temperatures.” Her face clouded. “Thank goodness.”
“What’s up, girl? Don’t tell me you are one of those nervous brides.”
Tina fluttered her cherry-red fingernails in a dismissive gesture. “Heck, no! It’s not that. I’m thrilled to pieces to finally get to the altar.” She patted her red curls and sniffed. “Especially at my age.”
Darby slammed the door of the Jeep. “So you’re not anxious about the wedding. What’s the problem?”
“It’s Donny. He’s gone and done it again.”
“Has he had an accident?”
“No, not an accident. Not exactly.” She looked down at her cuticles, frowning at one that was snagged. “How was your flight?”
“Now don’t go changing the subject on me, Tina. Tell me what Donny has done to get you in such a state.”
The tall woman grimaced. “Heck, he’s found another body—another dead body, that is, although luckily this one wasn’t a bloody mess.”
The mutilated corpse of Dr. Emerson Phipps flashed before Darby’s eyes and she grimaced. Poor Donny Pease had nearly tripped on him months earlier in the garden cottage at Fairview, the estate where he’d worked as caretaker, and it had taken him days to recover from the shock.
“Tina,” she said firmly, looking into the bride-to-be’s puckered face. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Tina gave a tremulous sigh. She hugged her voluminous winter coat closer to her thin body and blew on her bare hands for warmth. “Let’s get out of this darn cold air first, okay?”
“Fine.” Darby opened the Jeep’s lift gate and grabbed a small suitcase. Seconds later she was following Tina up the icy walkway to the rambling farmhouse’s side door. As Tina turned the knob, Darby shot a glance across the street to the postcard-perfect cove of her childhood.
Dark spruces stood like sentinels beside the tiny curving beach where she had once darted into the cold water, dug moats for sand castles, and caught tiny hermit crabs. Darby gave a painful swallow. I’m home.
Tina fiddled with the side door lock and made an exasperated sound. “Dang thing! Thought I’d left it open. Even with a key it’s tricky.”
“Allow me.” Darby fished in her pocketbook for the key, jiggled it expertly in the lock, and pushed open the door.
“Not bad,” Tina teased. “Almost like you used to live here.”
“Some things you don’t forget.” Like waiting for your parents in an empty house, only to discover they are missing at sea. Darby shook off the dark memory, willing herself to put it out of her mind. You dealt with your grief last visit, remember?
A welcome blast of warm air and the sound of hissing logs met the two women as they entered. “The fire feels great. Do I have you to thank for that?”
“No, Donny. He got it going before he headed over to Mana-tuck.” Tina frowned. “He goes over in that boat of his just about every day, running errands and whatnot. He doesn’t have to do it, and certainly not in this kind of weather. I think he just likes to be on the water, no matter how low the temperature drops.” She opened a vintage wooden cupboard. “Got some tea if you’d like a cup?”
“Sure.” Darby watched as Tina flicked on a burner and plunked the tarnished tea kettle on to boil. It was all very familiar—the steamy kitchen’s small rectangular table, the painted cupboards with cheerful red-checked vinyl lining the drawers, the warmth from the adjoining living room’s crackling fireplace. She brought a shaky hand to her face.
Tina’s chatter continued.
“Anyway, Donny helps that old witch Carlene Ross pull her traps. Why he even gives her the time of day, I’ll never know.” Tina shook her head, causing her red curls to jiggle. “They’re supposedly cousins if you go way back, but who the heck cares. Carlene is about the most unpleasant person you’d ever want to meet.” She took two ceramic mugs out of the cabinet and fished two tea bags from a box. “Constant Comment. I remember that was your favorite.”
Darby smiled. Actually, it had been her Japanese mother, Jada Farr’s, tea of choice, but it was sweet of Tina just the same.
“I do love this tea. Now tell me the rest of the story. Did something happen to Carlene?”
“Nah, nothing bad ever happens to the real ornery types.” She carried the cups to the table and plunked them down. “You notice that? The real grumpy curmudgeons live on and on, making the rest of us miserable. They don’t get cancer, or have heart attacks. Too mean to die.” Settling into one of the wooden chairs, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Here’s the scoop. Carlene’s in her boat, pulling up her traps, and she goes to yank up this one and it won’t budge. She’s hauling and hauling, and nothing is happening. The line’s obviously stuck on something, and stuck hard.” She dunked her tea bag into the water several times and continued.
“So Donny rafts up alongside and climbs into her boat to help. They’re tugging on the line and pulling it up when—”
The ring of a phone interrupted Tina midsentence.
“Crap, that’s my cell.” She yanked it out of her coat pocket and glanced at the display. “Alcott Bridges. Sorry, but I’ve got to take this.” She switched on her phone, said a brisk hello, and then walked out of the kitchen wearing an intent look on her face.
Darby blew on her tea. Tina was a brand-new real estate agent, working for the small company in which Darby was a part owner. The driven redhead managed the Maine office of Near & Farr Realty, while an old family friend, Helen Near, ran the South Florida branch. It was a very different setup than Pacific Coast Realty, the giant Southern California firm where Darby herself worked, and yet the two small offices sold a fair amount of property, including some multi-million dollar estates.
“Wahoo,” Tina sang as she sashayed back into the kitchen, her narrow hips swinging, a big grin on her face. “Alcott wants me to list his house, and it’s a real beauty.”
“Is he the artist?” Darby dimly recalled the painter, an eccentric recluse who lived on Manatuck Harbor.
Tina grinned. “I sent him a letter last month. Looks like my timing was perfect.” She typed rapidly on her phone with her red nails. “Tomorrow, two in the afternoon,” she said out loud. She tossed her phone on the table. “Now where was I?”
“Donny and Carlene were pull
ing traps. Hey—isn’t your wedding on Saturday? Are you sure you want to have a listing appointment the afternoon before?”
Tina puffed air out of her mouth. “You kidding me? Of course I do. I’m not letting some other agent like that awful Babette get in to see Alcott Bridges, that’s for sure. He’s right on Manatuck Harbor, with that amazing wraparound porch and private pebbly beach. I’ll get that house on the system as soon as he signs with us.”
A chuckle escaped Darby’s lips. “You’re worse than I am, Tina Ames, and that’s saying something. Who’s this Babette?”
“Babette Applebaum. She moved up here from New Jersey last August after being a summer visitor for years and years. Hung up her shingle with some hotshot broker from southern Maine, and started getting listings. She’s a royal pain in my neck, I’ll tell you that.”
Darby was used to competition for listings but knew her friend Tina was not. “You’re a great agent Tina, plus you’re a local. I’m sure you’re doing fine.” She patted the chair beside her. “Continue with the story. I’m dying to know how Donny found a body.”
Tina sunk back into the kitchen chair. “She was wrapped up in the trap line, that’s what happened. One of her legs was tangled tighter than a trussed-up turkey.”
“Who?”
“Well, that’s the weird thing. Remember your last trip to Maine, when you saw Chief Dupont?”
Darby nodded. Hurricane Harbor’s Chief of Police had been less than helpful at the start of her visit, but by the time she’d departed her dislike of the man had mellowed, and they’d become colleagues, if not friends.
“Yes, I remember.”
“There was a classmate of yours working for him—Lorraine Delvecchio. About a month ago she went to work for the Mana-tuck Police Department, doing about the same thing she did for the Chief.” Tina paused. “She’s the one they found, Darby. Somehow Lorraine Delvecchio got herself wrapped around that lobster trap line and drowned.”
Darby flashed on the glimpse she’d had of the thin, furtive Lorraine. She barely remembered her as a high school student, but it was strange to think that she was now dead. “Poor thing.”
Final Settlement Page 2