by Barbara Ross
“Quentin’s here to help me carry my stuff,” Wyatt answered. “In addition to clothes, I have a lot of work on board. Not just my work on the Garbo, other projects. I need to retrieve my files and drawings for my other clients. The drawings for the Garbo are in Geoffrey’s office. Legally, they belong to my firm. I’ll have to be escorted there as well.”
Binder frowned, but then gave a resigned nod. “Very well.”
Genevieve climbed the gangway with Flynn and me following. “They’re here to help me carry stuff too,” she said, jerking her thumb back at us.
The lieutenant motioned to Jamie. “Officer, please accompany Ms. Pelletier and her entourage. Make sure they only go to the galley and Ms. Pelletier’s cabin.”
Great. He was on to us.
Genevieve led the way to the galley. We went down three sets of stairs, and through hallways that snaked around the ship’s enormous engine and power plant. Thank goodness she was with us. Even though I’d been to the kitchen four days before, I couldn’t imagine finding it on my own. Jamie, Flynn, and I stood in the crew dining area while Genevieve moved quickly around the small galley. She put a canvas holder with her knives on the countertop. A copper-bottomed pan used for poaching fish and a large pot followed. She lifted each of the pans to show Jamie her initials, GEP, marked on the bottoms. Into the big pot she put an empty olive oil dispenser, two wooden spoons, and a rubber spatula. She didn’t show Jamie her name on those, nor did he ask.
“Did the crime scene techs clean out the refrigerator?” she asked as she opened the door. It was empty. The contents must have been taken for testing before they’d narrowed in on the salad. “What about the pantry?”
Before Jamie could answer, Genevieve disappeared inside it. He stepped up and stood behind her in the doorway.
“This all seems to be in order,” she called.
“Ms. Pelletier, you have permission to retrieve your own things, period,” Jamie reminded her. He waved us on impatiently. “Let’s go. We still have to get your stuff from your cabin.”
Flynn grabbed the big pot full of stuff and I took the poaching pan. Genevieve carried her own knives and led the way to her cabin, which was on the same level. In the cabin she pulled several uniforms out of the small built-in chest of drawers, polo shirts, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, and a light jacket, all in the light aqua color and sporting the Garbo name. “Can I take these?” she asked Jamie. “They’re provided by the ship’s owner, but they’re ours to keep. Besides I don’t have enough clothes until I get back to my stuff in Portland.”
“Sure,” he said, but not before he glanced at Flynn, who nodded. “Sure.” More confidently the second time.
Jamie inspected each item, including her underwear, before Genevieve put it all in a Garbo duffel bag, adding white pants and shorts from another drawer and her chef uniforms and toques. She gathered an e-reader from the top of the bureau and put it on top. “That’s it,” she said. “I took everything else with me when I got off on Friday.”
“What’s in the other two drawers?” I asked. I wondered if all crew members traveled as light.
“Maria Consuelo’s things,” Genevieve answered, her voice low. “What will happen to them?”
“If she turns up, I imagine they’ll get back to her,” Flynn said.
“I hope she’s all right,” Genevieve sighed. She took the big pot from Flynn and he shouldered the duffel bag.
“Are you sure you got everything?” I asked. “You didn’t really check.” For years we had moved from our house in the harbor to Morrow Island every spring and back again every fall. My mother had taught me to take one last look to make sure nothing was left behind. I opened the slim door to the closet. “Any of this yours?”
“Maria Consuelo’s,” Genevieve answered.
“What about this?” I pulled out a starched white apron.
“Ooh. You’re right.” She took it from me.
“See.” I looked around again. It was a tiny cabin for two people. Not many places for stuff to hide.
“C’mon,” Jamie urged. “The lieutenant will wonder what’s happened to us.”
“One more thing.” I got down on my hands and knees, peering under the bed.
A pair of large brown eyes stared back at me.
“Aaaahhh!” I shrieked and she shrieked. The duffel hit the ground with a whoomph and Flynn was next to me, reaching under the bunk to pull Maria Consuelo out. She emerged, blinking in the dim light of the room, and then burst into noisy tears.
* * *
Genevieve, Flynn, and I waited on the hard benches across from the desk of the civilian receptionist at the police station. Finally, the door to the multipurpose room opened and Lieutenant Binder stepped out. “She’s shook up but otherwise fine. She says she stayed behind on the boat because she had nowhere else to go.”
Genevieve made a strangled noise. “I never should have left her. I was so excited about having time off, seeing Tom. I didn’t think about where she would go.”
“She wasn’t your responsibility,” Flynn said sharply.
“She wasn’t anyone’s. That’s why she got left behind,” Genevieve snapped back.
Binder arched his back, stretching, as if he’d been sitting too long. His jacket was off, shirtsleeves rolled up, an unusually informal look for him. “She has the diamond ring.” He looked at me when he said it. Then he looked toward Genevieve. “She hung out, napping in your quarters all afternoon on Friday. She got hungry and went toward the kitchen when she heard screaming coming from the dining room. That was Ms. Jayne discovering Mr. Bower’s body. Ms. Lopez hid in the service pantry while Ms. Jayne called Mr. Tupper and then you. You and Mr. Durand arrived. You both escorted Ms. Jayne from the room. That’s when Ms. Lopez crept into the dining room to see what had happened. She saw the ring in the lobster claw and stole it impulsively. She’s been hiding on board ever since, going down into the bowels of the boat every time we searched, terrified we’d find out what she did. Today there were too many people on board. She got trapped in her cabin.”
“She didn’t see anyone else that day? Didn’t hear the murder?” I asked.
Binder shook his head. “She swears no. Says she was asleep all afternoon. She’s scared to death we’re going to charge her with the theft of the ring. I believe she’s telling all she knows.”
“Can I see the ring?” I asked.
Binder looked up sharply. “Why? We’ve established you were right. The ring was there.”
I looked at Flynn. Did he want to be included in this? His face was unreadable. I hesitated, hoping for a nod or a wink, or even for him to take over the conversation. He didn’t, so I went on. “The reason I was so positive about the ring is because I recognized the diamond. Well, really, the antique setting it was in.” I took a deep breath and went for it. “The diamond comes from a valuable necklace that belonged to my family.” I glanced at Flynn again. “We’ve confirmed that Geoffrey had the necklace.”
“We?”
Flynn finally spoke up. “I went with Julia to Gordon’s Jewelry. Mr. Gordon fashioned the ring from a diamond on a necklace called the Black Widow. Then we spoke with Rick Enrique, the crew member who delivered the necklace to the Garbo.”
“I believe the necklace may have been the motive for Geoffrey’s murder,” I finished.
“Unless the perpetrator was the protester, Cliff Munroe,” Flynn added.
“It seems the three of us need to talk.” He turned to Genevieve. “In the meantime, we’ve arranged for a room for Ms. Lopez at Blount’s. Perhaps you would accompany her there and get her settled?”
“Of course.” Genevieve stood.
“Meanwhile, Ms. Snowden, Sergeant Flynn, perhaps you’d like to share your insights on this case with me.”
* * *
After we finished with Lieutenant Binder, I rushed back to Mom’s to pick up the Caprice and drove out to Livvie’s house. She and her family were moving out to the island the next day and I’d promis
ed to help her with the packing.
We worked in Page’s room, gathering the clothing and toys she’d need for the summer. Livvie listened, openmouthed, as I caught her up on my conversation with Binder and Flynn.
“Did Lieutenant Binder believe you?”
“I think so.” I pulled a tangle of jeans out of Page’s bottom drawer and sat on her bed to fold them. “Geoffrey’s lawyer is arriving this afternoon. He has the combination to the safe and Lieutenant Binder says he’ll open it. If the Black Widow isn’t there—” I let the statement hang.
“The Black Widow,” Livvie sighed. “Imagine.” She was in the bottom of Page’s closet pulling out summer shoes. “These won’t fit.” She held up a pair of sandals. “What about the protester?”
“Lieutenant Binder asked if I knew if he was still in the area and where he was staying. I only talked to him that one time. But they’re looking for him.”
“Mmm,” Livvie responded, still from the bottom of the closet. “Any other news of the day?”
I stopped folding. “Chris has a brother in state prison.”
That got her out of the closet. “What?”
“You didn’t know? Chris said he was sure Sonny knew.”
“It’s never come up.” I didn’t believe her and said so. Livvie and Sonny were like conjoined twins who shared a central nervous system. “Seriously, it has never come up,” she insisted. “I would have told you. What did he do?”
“Robbed a convenience store. With a gun.”
Livvie dropped next to me on Page’s bed. “Wow. Does Chris visit him?”
“I don’t think so.” But then I hadn’t known about the brother either. “He doesn’t like to talk about his family. But wait, there’s more,” I added. “The whole reason the subject of his brother came up was because I asked him about Vanessa.”
“You didn’t!”
“You told me to. You said that’s what people in adult relationships did.”
“Did I? I’m so sorry. You should never listen to me.”
“Well, I did, and here’s what I found out. He thinks Vanessa might be his brother’s child.”
Livvie’s amber eyes opened wide. “Has he asked Emmy?”
“No, but I’m sure he’s working up to it.”
Down the hall, Jack began to babble in his bed. “Give him a minute,” Livvie said. “He’s happy.” She patted my shoulder. “You’ve had an eventful twenty-four hours.”
“Yup,” I agreed. “And that’s not even all of it. It turns out Wyatt used to be Quentin’s girlfriend.”
“WHAT?”
I filled her in on the whole conversation. At three o’clock, I rushed off to change and pick up Mom for the walk to Geoffrey Bower’s memorial service at Foreman’s Funeral Home. Livvie gave me a hug. “Thanks for your help. Tomorrow, Morrow Island!”
Chapter 22
Mom and I climbed the front steps to Foreman’s, an old Victorian house on Main Street at the edge of downtown. The Foreman family had operated the funeral home and lived upstairs for generations. It was there that I had said my good-byes to my father and my grandparents. The Foremans had been seeing the Snowdens out of this world for a long time. The losses weighed on me whenever I crossed their threshold. I imagined it was the same for my mother.
A Foreman nephew greeted us and directed us to the larger of the home’s two parlors. He wore a suit and tie, articles of clothing that had all but disappeared from Busman’s Harbor in recent years. Lawyers wore them, but only on days they went to court. Politicians wore them, but only on days they went to Augusta. The men who sent you to your final rest were the only everyday suit-wearers remaining.
In the spacious front parlor, oriental carpets muffled footsteps and leather couches lined the walls. The center of the room had been set with rows upon rows of folding chairs, enough for a town dignitary. Who did Wyatt think would fill them?
Wyatt was at the front, waiting to greet people. Quentin stood next to her in a dark blazer. I was astonished to see the open coffin. Foreman’s had the body for such a short time. Poor Geoffrey had been poisoned and then kept in the police morgue and autopsied. And there had been that awful grin.
My mother took my arm and dragged me to the front of the room. She hugged Wyatt, murmuring her condolences. I followed Mom’s lead. “I couldn’t let that horrible smile be the last I ever saw of Geoffrey,” Wyatt whispered, answering my unasked question about the open coffin.
I turned and looked at him then. It was a standard wooden coffin, hardly befitting a billionaire. It must have been something Foreman’s had in stock. The undertaker had done a good job with Geoffrey. I didn’t want to linger on how they’d gotten rid of his grisly death mask, but he looked at peace. Only the top half of him showed in the split top coffin. He wore the yachtsman’s blazer and cap, and the cheap wig, which was comically askew.
I felt badly for Wyatt, left to handle the funeral of someone she’d known long enough to care about, but surely not long enough to have discussed final arrangements. I wondered how specific Geoffrey’s instructions had been. He seemed like a man who didn’t leave things to chance.
Folks began filtering into the room. Rick, Ian, and Doug arrived together, Rick looking devastated, Ian and Doug stoic. They stopped short when they entered the room, no doubt as surprised by the open coffin as I’d been, but then made their way to the front. Wyatt greeted them. They gave their condolences, Rick kissing her on the cheek, then sat in the second row of folding chairs.
Genevieve, Flynn, and Maria Consuelo walked in moments later and joined their crewmates. All the crew wore their Garbo uniforms, a final tribute. Mom and I hugged Genevieve and shook hands with Flynn and the young stewardess, then moved to seats farther back in the room. Jamie and Officer Howland sat toward the back as well. Neither was in uniform and I wondered if they’d come out of respect or duty. I was a little surprised Binder wasn’t present.
There was a scattering of other people in the seats, old townies who attended every funeral at Foreman’s. I was oddly proud of the citizens of Busman’s Harbor who’d had a chance to ogle the funeral of a murder victim and a billionaire, two potentially powerful draws, but who hadn’t, more out of respect than disinterest, I hoped. Though it was Monday afternoon at the start of the busy season, so maybe practical considerations had kept the rubberneckers away.
Emil and Captain Marius were the last of the crew to arrive. They too reacted to the open coffin, especially Emil, whose mouth dropped. He caught himself, snapping it shut with a pop. They sat directly behind their crewmates.
I followed Wyatt’s gaze to the back of the room. Cliff Munroe, the protester, sat on one of the couches that lined the back wall. Surely he wouldn’t cause trouble at Geoffrey Bower’s funeral. I turned back to Wyatt, who looked, not concerned, but puzzled. I remembered she’d never come out on deck during Thursday night’s protest. Perhaps she didn’t know who he was. Ian, the mate, had mentioned seeing Munroe in Capri, but if Wyatt had noticed him there, but had never seen him again, she probably wouldn’t remember him in such a different setting.
Wyatt and Quentin took seats in the first row. The whispering mourners hushed. Mr. Foreman introduced Wyatt: “A friend of Mr. Bower who will say a few words of remembrance.” She walked, shuffling a stack of blue index cards, to the lectern, where she faced us, drew a deep breath, and began to speak. “Thank you all for—”
The heavy pocket doors at the back of the room banged open. My head whipped around to look even as my brain told me it was impolite. Lieutenant Binder charged into the room, accompanied by a small man in a dark suit. Shaking off Binder’s attempt to restrain him, he ran to the front of the room, shouting, “Stop! Stop!” Wyatt, and the rest of us, watched openmouthed as he inspected the coffin. “This man is not Geoffrey Bower!”
The Foreman nephew reached Wyatt at the same moment Binder reached the dark-suited man. He turned back toward the assembled mourners, shrugging Binder off with an oath, while Wyatt fell into the funeral d
irector’s arms.
Everyone talked at once. “What is going on?” my mother hissed at me.
“I have no idea.” I wished I was farther forward so I could see the crew’s reactions, but Flynn was there and he’d note them if Binder had his hands too full to do so. I turned around. Jamie and Howland had moved to the front to assist Binder. Cliff Munroe had disappeared.
* * *
At Mom’s insistence we’d hustled Wyatt away while the police were occupied with the man in the suit. Wyatt sagged against Quentin’s arm as they both sat on Mom’s couch, her face a relief map of splotches and running makeup.
“Wyatt, I am so sorry,” Quentin said. It was hard to know what to say. It was hard not to ask a million questions. Mom made a fuss about tea and cookies while I handed tissues across the coffee table.
“What did that man mean?” Wyatt finally asked with a last honk into a tissue.
“He said, ‘This man is not Geoffrey Bower,’” I repeated, in case she hadn’t heard in the melee.
“How could that be and who was that man?” she asked.
“He came in with Lieutenant Binder,” I answered.
“I think he might be Geoffrey’s lawyer and business partner.” It was pure speculation on my part, but we were in a situation short on established facts.
“Seebold Frederickson,” Wyatt said. “Geoffrey talked about him all the time.”
My mind swirled, chasing an explanation but unable to pin it down. If what the man at Foreman’s said was true—if the corpse wasn’t Bower—how many people were in on the conspiracy and how long had it been going on? The head steward, Rick, had been on the Garbo for six years, the security guard, Emil, for longer. Doug had worked on the yacht for three years. Everyone else was new.
Had Wyatt been the victim of the most elaborate catphishing hoax ever? One involving more than half a dozen people and millions of dollars to lure her to do—what? According to the crew, she hadn’t even slept with the dead man. The more likely explanation was that the man in the church was the impostor. Lieutenant Binder was at that moment, no doubt, trying to untangle those questions of identity.