The Café bustled with a hungry lunchtime crowd. Darby waited several minutes before ordering two bowls of curried butternut squash soup. The restaurant’s owner, a fifty-something banker from Boston, chatted as he rang up the sale. “Looks like we’re in for a good dumping,” he commented. He saw Darby’s puzzled face and added, “Snow. Sounds like a blizzard, if you can believe what the weather people say. Of course, you can’t always go by their predictions! Half the time they are dead wrong.”
Darby took the bag with the two containers of soup and thanked the man. Was a blizzard truly forecast for the imminent future? What would that mean for Miles and his flight from California?
She walked to her car, thinking that the lack of a television at the old farmhouse had meant she was oblivious to the weather report. No wonder the air felt so damp. It was going to snow.
The compact office of Near & Farr Realty was located a quarter mile up the hill from town, with a slice of harbor just visible from the small parking lot. Darby parked, grabbed the soups, and headed down the icy path. Tina met her at the door and flung it open.
“Yum! I swear that I can smell that soup already. Curried squash, right? Can’t wait.”
Darby placed the containers on a scarred wooden conference table. “I forgot spoons, I’m afraid.”
“No biggie, we’ve got some here. Jane insisted we have cutlery, wine glasses, and cocktail plates at the ready, just in case she needed to booze up some potential buyer.” She grinned. “That aunt of yours was a character.” She plunked two spoons, two napkins, and two glasses of sparkling water on the table. “I miss her.”
“Thanks.” Darby couldn’t say whether she missed her Aunt Jane. Their relationship had been so fraught with complications that it was almost a relief having it over. I miss the parts of her I didn’t fully appreciate, she thought. If we’d had the chance to know each other as adults, we might have found common ground.
The women enjoyed their lunch in silence. When Tina was finished, she pushed aside her cardboard container. “Okay … bring on the shoes!”
Darby laughed. “They’re in the car. Be right back.”
She dashed out and opened up the Jeep’s passenger door. The red lacquered box was there, but the white plastic bag holding the shoes was not on the fabric seat. She looked in the back but found nothing. Finally, she looked under both of the seats and in the cargo compartment.
The Manolo Blahniks were gone.
Baffled, Darby trotted back to the building and gave her friend the news.
“What?” she gulped, her face turning an ashen gray. “Terri’s going to kill me.”
“They were in a bag on the front seat.” She thought back, remembered leaving the box and the bag, and heading to the Café. She had not locked the Jeep. “Somebody must have stolen them when I picked up the soup. I feel terrible.”
Tina jumped up from her chair. “I’ll have to stall until I can find an identical pair.” She paced the wooden floor of the office, clearly in her own world. “First I’ll say they didn’t fit, that’s why I’m not wearing them for the ceremony. Then I’ll pretend that I forgot to bring them for her to take home. In the meantime, I can probably find a pair online …”
Darby picked up the office phone and called the Hurricane Harbor Ferry Service. She explained the theft and asked if they would be on the lookout for anyone boarding the ferry carrying a white plastic bag. To her surprise, the person on the other line agreed.
“Sure.” He took down Darby’s number. “Hate to tell you, but there’ve been other thefts on the island: a lady’s pocketbook from the Inn, and some guy’s cashmere coat. Ripped right off the rack while he was drinking beer at The Eye. Can you believe that? He had to walk home in these temperatures without a coat.”
“Does Chief Dupont know?”
“Sure, but do you think he’s going to get much done now that Bitsy’s back in town?” The man gave a hearty laugh as Darby thanked him and hung up. Poor Chief Dupont. He was now the subject of Hurricane Harbor’s extremely active rumor mill.
She faced her friend, who had stopped her pacing.
“Tina, I’m so sorry. I should have locked the car when I went into the Café.”
“Aw, honey, I don’t care about the stupid shoes one bit. The ones I’ve got fit me fine and look great.” Her face darkened. “It’s Terri that I’m worried about. She takes these kinds of things—designer clothes, crap like that—very seriously.” She snorted. “Trixie and I joke about her all the time. Not to her face, because she’d get so upset. But when we’re alone, we call her Queen Name Drop. She’s just a little too full of herself for our taste.”
Darby recalled the curator’s praise of Terri’s fundraising prowess. “She seems to be pretty involved with what’s happening in Westerly,” she offered.
“Oh yeah. She was the same way when she lived here. But then she got tired of the island. One day she just packed up her husband and kids, and moved. She said it was because Westerly had a better school system, and maybe that was part of it. If you ask me, she wanted to reinvent herself in a town where she wouldn’t be known as one of the Ames girls.”
“What does Terri’s husband do for work?”
Again a snort from Tina. “Not much. He runs some sort of consulting company. His family’s filthy rich, so he spends most of the time doing things with the kids—coaching sports, driving them here and there. The guy’s an absolutely doting father. I think if he’d had his way, they would have had a great big family.” She sighed. “Don’t worry about the damn shoes, okay? Just remember: Hurricane Harbor’s not quite as safe as it used to be.”
Darby nodded. She thought of her parents and their afternoon sail, an innocent outing that had ended in tragedy. As she logged onto a spare computer, her mind spun with one question: Had Hurricane Harbor ever really been safe?
_____
Tina Ames pushed in her chair and grabbed her pink coat from the rack. “Headed off to meet Alcott Bridges,” she announced, buttoning the coat’s enormous black buttons. “I know you just came back from Westerly, but do you wanna come along?”
Darby looked up from the computer. Definitions of Lorraine Delvecchio’s condition, hyperthymesia, filled the screen. “Sure. You driving?”
“Yep.”
Darby pulled on her coat and grabbed her phone and a notebook. She followed Tina into the cold afternoon, shivering at the damp February air.
“Your vehicle locked now? You wouldn’t want this thief stealing that cool box from Japan.”
“It’s locked. You know, you’re right—it’s strange that the box wasn’t taken.”
“Maybe the thief didn’t think it was as valuable as a pair of fancy designer shoes.”
“Good point. Those shoes are probably easier to get rid of, too.”
“Exactly.” Tina started her SUV and blasted the heat. “I’m betting this crook’s a woman. Maybe that purse she stole was Gucci and the coat Pucci. This isn’t some run-of-the-mill robber—this is a gal who likes quality.”
“The Name Brand Bandit,” Darby offered. She thought a moment. “That’s the kind of thing you’d come up with.”
“Ha! You’re right. Some of my humor’s rubbing off on you, and girl, that’s a good thing.” Tina steered onto the ferry and parked. “Isn’t that Chief Dupont’s car?”
Darby looked at the tan compact and nodded. “He and Bitsy were going someplace for lunch.”
“Oh Lord,” Tina groaned. “I suppose I’m going to have to talk to her sometime. Now’s as good a time as any. Come on.”
Together the women left Tina’s car and headed into the ferry’s cabin. Sure enough, Charles Dupont and Bitsy Carmichael were seated in the corner. Bitsy gave a little wave in their direction.
“See, Darby, I finally did get Charlie out of the office.” She gave his arm a little punch. “Gotta eat, that’s what I always say.”
Chief Dupont’s round face was crimson. He managed a small smile that was more of a grimace.
“Where are you headed for lunch?” Tina asked brightly. She extended her hand toward Bitsy, the red fingernails pointed like daggers. “I’m Tina Ames. Not sure if you remember me, but …”
“Of course I do, Tina! What a big week this is for you. Donny told me all about your wedding, and I hope you don’t mind, but he invited me. I’ll be going with Charlie, of course.” Bitsy patted his arm and he sighed.
Darby slid her eyes toward Tina. If the redhead was surprised by the revelation that Bitsy Carmichael was to be a guest at her ceremony, she did an excellent job hiding it. “Of course we want you there, Bitsy.” She turned to Darby. “Did I mention that our hair appointments are tomorrow morning at ten? We’ll need to take the ferry across, but my sister Trixie’s making cocktails.” She glanced hastily at Chief Dupont. “Of course we’ll be taking a taxi back and forth to the beauty parlor.”
Chief Dupont nodded. “Smart move.” He turned to Darby. “Any luck with your homework?”
“Yes. What a fascinating gift.”
“I’m not sure Lorraine always saw it that way.”
“What gift?” Bitsy’s round face was in a pout. “What are you talking about?”
“Lorraine Delvecchio had a rare condition called hyperthymesia,” Chief Dupont explained. “I asked Darby to look into it. What did you find out?”
“It’s a kind of superior autobiographical memory. People with hyperthymesia can recall specific events from their personal past with extraordinary clarity.”
“I remember things from my past,” Bitsy sniffed. “Like the day I met Chuck—I mean—Charles. You were at the elementary school, picking up the kids, and I was subbing for the school nurse. Remember? Alana fell off the merry-go-round and scraped her knee, and I came running over with a bandage.” She smiled fondly.
To Darby’s surprise, Chief Dupont smiled too. “She still hates the sight of blood,” he said.
Tina jabbed Darby with a pointy elbow. “Good Lord,” she muttered. Out loud she asked, “So how is this memory thing special?”
“Lorraine described it once,” Chief Dupont said. “She didn’t like to talk about it, but we worked together so closely that she confided in me. I gave her a random date: May 29, 1999. She not only remembered that it was the day the Discovery Shuttle completed its first docking with the International Space Station, but she also described a story in the Bangor Daily News about a cold case murder investigation that was being reopened. I checked it out, and she was right.” He paused. “Lorraine said it worked like this: she pictured a calendar in her head. She went to the date, May 29, and then could see, like a little movie, what had happened on that day. She knew what she was wearing, what she had for lunch, and who’d called her on the phone. All this personal stuff, in addition to world and local events she’d read or heard about back on that day.”
Bitsy and Tina shook their heads in amazement.
“I don’t know if I’d want to remember all that crap,” Tina said.
“Me neither.” Bitsy shuddered.
“Some people with superior autobiographical memory can recall events from twenty or thirty years back,” Darby said. “Chief, did Lorraine ever say exactly what she could remember?”
Chief Dupont leaned forward. In a low voice he said, “She told me she could remember every single day of her life from the time she was a child of ten.” His eyes met Darby’s as the ferry prepared to dock. “My personal theory? I think she remembered some things other people wanted left forgotten.”
_____
Alcott Bridges lived on Manatuck Harbor in a shingled turn-of-the-century cottage with a ten-foot-wide porch that wrapped nearly around the house. A smaller, second-floor porch ran across the front, along with three jaunty gables topped by a small widow’s walk. Views of the bay and a distant Hurricane Harbor were unbroken this time of year, but Darby noted that even in the summer there would be nothing save a few low-growing beach roses between the house and the spectacular view.
She and Tina walked up the frozen driveway, past the porch’s round columns, to the door. “Some place, huh?” Tina asked as she rapped on the wide porch window.
“The setting is gorgeous and I love the exterior. Has the inside been updated?”
“We’ll find out.” Tina knocked again. “Mr. Bridges?”
They watched as the artist shuffled toward them. He wore a crimson silk dressing gown belted at the waist over what Darby assumed were his pajamas. His sparse hair was gray and disheveled; his face lined and sporting a week’s worth of stubble. He yanked open the door with surprising force and jerked his balding head.
“Don’t let all the heat out, ladies! Come in, come in.” He pushed the door shut behind them and waved an arm in the direction of a room. “Go ahead into the parlor.” Darby heard the swishing sounds of slippers on the wood floors. She glanced at his feet and saw elaborately beaded leather moccasins.
Alcott Bridges regarded his visitors with sunken eyes ringed by deep circles. “Well?”
Tina cleared her throat. “Mr. Bridges, I’m Tina Ames from Near & Farr Realty, and this is my associate, Darby Farr. You phoned us about selling your house.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “So I did,” he said gruffly. “I suppose I should show you around.”
He proceeded to lead Tina and Darby through the house, stopping before a locked door off the kitchen. He produced a key and used it with practiced rapidity.
“My studio,” he said, pushing open the door and allowing them to enter. Darby and Tina stepped inside.
It was a remarkable space: an old post and beam barn with large wooden timbers, and walls painted a clean white, reminiscent of a gallery. On the pristine surfaces hung paintings of every shape and size—portraits, mostly, bearing the unmistakable style of the great oil painter.
“Sweet Lord,” said Tina. “You are one talented man.”
Alcott Bridges managed a small grin. “One tries.”
The center of the studio was dominated by a large easel, upon which rested a canvas half-painted with a modern landscape of varying geometric shapes. Darby edged closer to the work, deciphering the gray cubes and blocks, finally recognizing the subject.
“The Manatuck Breakwater,” she breathed, remembering that the curator in Westerly had mentioned the artist’s new direction.
“Yes.” He inclined his head slightly, as if critiquing his own work, and then turned to Darby.
“You have a good eye. Not everyone sees what is not readily apparent.”
“Thank you.” She noticed shapes on the Breakwater and pointed to one. “Those are people, right?”
He nodded. “Strolling that thing is quite the local pursuit, I’m afraid.”
Darby turned to him. “Can you see the Breakwater from your house?”
“From the upstairs bedrooms, of course. But I drive over there when I want to paint.”
“Were you there on Wednesday?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Now that it is so cold I work from photographs.” He shuffled to a table and handed her several prints. “This is what I use. The rest—” he tapped his head, “is up here.”
Tina moved closer to look at the photographs. “Did you hear about the girl who fell off the Breakwater? Her body was found yesterday.”
“No. How distressing.” Alcott Bridges picked up a stray paint brush and placed it inside a glass jar holding dozens more. Absently he asked, “Not a local, I hope?”
“Actually, yes,” Darby said. “She was a woman I went to high school with. She worked for the Manatuck Police Department. Her name was Lorraine Delvecchio.”
Alcott Bridges’s whole body stiffened. He turned jerkily toward a tattered armchair and stumbled slowly toward it. “You say she’s dead?” The old man sank into the chair.
“Yes,” Tina answered. She turned a puzzled face to Darby, her auburn eyebrows raised in surprise.
Darby was watching the artist intently. “I’m sorry for this shocking news. You must have known Lorraine.”
He frowned, knitting the bushy brows together. “No, no. I didn’t know the girl.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m just—well, I’m horrified to hear such a terrible thing has happened. Negative emotions—someone causing harm to someone else—you see, I don’t want them to be a part of my art.”
He raised his head and gave Darby a pointed look. “As an artist, I feel things much more acutely than others.” He looked down at the floor. “So distressing.” A moment later he lifted his face, fixing Darby with a stare from his watery eyes. “Perhaps you’d better go.”
Tina and Darby exchanged looks.
“Okay, Mr. Bridges,” Tina said. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’ll check back with you next week to talk about a listing price, but if you have any questions, you can call me before that.”
He nodded once. Darby and Tina moved quietly out of the studio, through the kitchen, and out the porch door.
“Did you see how he acted when you said Lorraine’s name?” Tina pushed the porch door shut and faced her friend. “He sure as hell knew that girl. What a load of bull, saying he’s an artist and feels things more than other people. He’s not telling us the truth.”
“I agree.” Darby opened the car door and slid inside. “He definitely had an intense reaction to hearing she was dead, and he didn’t assume it was an accident, either. I couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or taken aback, could you?”
“Relieved,” Tina said, with a firm nod of her head. “I’m good at reading body language, and that man welcomed the news. He did everything but jump up and down and shout ‘Hallelujah!’”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right, Tina. The question then becomes, why?”
“Do you think it has anything to do with this super-duper memory thing?”
“Superior biographical memory? I don’t know. The Chief certainly thinks it’s what got Lorraine killed.” She turned to her friend, now headed toward the ferry office. “I wish we could get into Lorraine’s house and poke around. Any ideas?”
“Darby Farr!” Tina huffed. “I don’t believe you need to ask that question.” She swiveled toward Darby, her blue eyes piercing. “Let me remind you that we are real estate agents. Poking around in people’s houses? That’s what we do best.”
Final Settlement Page 9