by Barbara Ross
Barry’s own paintings lined the back wall. They were abstract, dramatic. Thick applications of acrylic piled on wood in slashes of color. I’d loved his work since I was a child. The paintings never made me think, but they always made me feel. For the first time, as an adult, I wondered about them. They weren’t the kind of art that would be bought by vacationing tourists. Did Barry make his life harder by persisting in this form? If he’d painted lighthouses and waves crashing on rocks, surely he would have sold more.
“I hear Quinn’s home,” I said.
Barry nodded his shaggy head. “She is indeed. Husband trouble, I’m afraid. Still, it’s great to have her and the grandchildren in the house.”
“I want to ask a few questions about the other night,” I said, getting down to business.
“The police were here yesterday. I told them all I could.” Barry sat on a stool beside his workbench and gestured for me to take another. “But fire away.”
“When you went out with Chris and Phil Bennett to look at the wreck, did you happen to see the stranger then?”
“Nope.” Barry told the same story about their little adventure that Chris and Phil Bennett had, though he left out the part about sliding down the hill on his backside. “It was slippery out as the dickens,” was all he said about it.
I asked another question, even though I knew the probable answer. “You paid that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“No idea. The Mrs. had it. I can ask her if you want me to.”
“No, that’s okay.” I’d have to make a point to talk to Fran later. “Can you think of some reason or some person who would want to gather you and Fran, the Caswells, the Bennetts, and the Smiths at the restaurant on the same evening?”
Barry answered easily, without a sign of worry or stress. “Why would someone do that? I don’t really know any of those people. Phil Bennett’s been in the store buying canvases a couple of times recently, but other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Julia, what’s this about? When Fran and I talked to the police yesterday, they didn’t seem particularly interested in what we had to say. I had the impression they were checking us off a list of obligatory interviews.”
I didn’t want to tell Barry I thought someone had lured him and his wife to the restaurant on the same night there’d been a murder there. I wasn’t sure, for one thing, and there were too many open questions—who, why, and was it in any way connected to the stranger and his death, for a few. So instead, I told a different kind of truth.
“I’ve been uncomfortable about what happened that night. Someone was murdered right downstairs while I was sleeping, and the police have no idea who did it. It’s taken a bit of the wind out of my sails. I was so excited about running the restaurant, but now . . .”
Barry put one of his big, paint-flecked hands over mine on the worktable. “I’m sorry, Julia, this has upset you. I’m sure the police will figure it out soon.”
“Thanks, Barry. I appreciate it.”
“Sure you don’t need any art supplies before you go?”
* * *
I managed to get out of Walker’s without buying anything. A failed knitting project was all the crafting I could handle. I stood for a moment on the sidewalk in the fading late afternoon light, squared my shoulders and continued about a half a mile down Main Street toward the imposing Victorian facade of the Fogged Inn.
Twice I almost turned around and went back to my apartment. I’d left visiting the Smiths until last, because of all the couples, I knew them the least. Which is to say I didn’t know them at all.
I climbed onto the Fogged Inn’s wide front porch. It was empty of furniture because of the season, but I imagined it was a delightful place to sit and read or simply stare at the boats in the harbor. A sign beside the front door said, WELCOME, and below that a list: NO CHILDREN. NO PETS. NO CHECKS. NO SOLICITATION. NO ACCOMMODATION WITHOUT PRIOR RESERVATION.
For a place meant to be welcoming, the long list of “no’s” had the opposite effect. I took a deep breath and rang the bell. Footsteps echoed inside and the door opened.
“Hullo.” It was Mr. Smith, looking a little fuzzy, like I’d woken him from a nap.
“Whoizzit?” A female voice bellowed from upstairs.
“Why it’s . . .”
“Julia Snowden,” I supplied.
“Julia Snowden,” he shouted back. “You know, from the restaurant.”
“Whazhewant?”
He peered at me expectantly. He was a strikingly handsome older man with long white hair that reminded me of a lion’s mane. He wore gray slacks and a blue shirt with a black belt around his trim waist.
“To talk about the night before last,” I supplied.
He turned to yell this, but there was a creaking on the stairs and Mrs. Smith appeared behind him. “The police have already been here.”
“I understand. This is more something I’m doing on my own.”
“Well then, you better come in.” Mrs. Smith gestured me inside.
Mr. Smith moved away from the door so I could enter, inadvertently backing into his wife. “Watchwhereyergoing!” she barked.
As the three of us stood in the front hallway, I looked through the broad archway into the living room. It was filled with heavy antiques—ponderous chairs, Tiffany lamps, and an uncomfortable-looking sofa. This wasn’t the Old Family Money Beach House Charm that Deborah Bennett had so successfully achieved at her place, or the comfortable, lived-in use of family pieces at the Snuggles. This was in-your-face antiquey-ness.
In the hallway hung another list of prohibitions. GAME ROOM CLOSES AT 9:00. NO NOISE AFTER 10:00. BREAKFAST SERVED PROMPTLY AT 8:00, NO EXCEPTIONS. NO WIFI, NO TV, NO FOOD SERVED AFTER BREAKFAST. Well, that would certainly make you feel at home.
“Sit down. You’ll have some tea,” Sheila Smith said, leaving no room for argument. “Michael, get us some tea. And cookies. The shortbreads. From the tin by the stove.” She pointed me toward one of the deep, mahogany-trimmed chairs and settled herself in the other. She wasn’t as attractive as her husband. Her mousy gray hair was worn in an old-fashioned pageboy. She was thin, even a little frail looking. I wondered if she was older than her handsome spouse.
“So, how long have you run the restaurant?” she asked. “Is the hunky chef your husband?”
I shrank from the questions, especially since to the extent I’d envisioned the conversation, I was the one doing the asking. Figuring it was better to give a little to get a little, I answered. “Five weeks. Chris is my boyfriend.”
“How long have you been together? Do you live together? How did you meet?”
“Since the summer. Not officially. We actually met when I was in seventh grade and he was a junior in high school, but I hadn’t seen him for years until I moved back to town last March.” I recited my answer with a “Just the facts, ma’am” delivery, hoping she’d get the hint and move off my personal life. Ironic, I understood, because I was there to probe into hers.
She leaned in confidentially, though she didn’t lower her voice. “So hard to work with loved ones, isn’t it?”
Michael Smith chose that moment to enter with the tea things. It was awkward timing but saved me having to answer. Sheila fixed me a cup and handed it to me. She’d evidently decided I took cream, no sugar. She did the same for Michael and finally for herself. Then she passed the shortbreads in my direction. In the interests of appearing cooperative, I took one.
“We order these from Scotland,” she said. “So expensive. That cookie you’re eating costs more than a dollar. So enjoy it.” She put the plate back down without taking a cookie or offering one to Michael.
It was too late to put it back, so I did as she commanded. “Delicious,” I said, which it was. Though I would have said so regardless of how it tasted. Then I seized the initiative, figuring maybe that way I could change the dynamic of the conversation. “How long have you run the inn?”
“Oh my,” Sheila answered. “We bou
ght it last fall, but it had to undergo extensive renovations. We opened over Memorial Day weekend.”
I tried to picture the house in earlier times. I had a vague memory of flaking white paint and sagging porches. The inn was right at the entrance to our little downtown, which should have been a great location, but over the years it had a For Sale sign on its small front lawn more often than not. Owners died, went broke, or gave up the business. It was one of those places that never seemed to take hold. In earlier times, people might have said it was cursed.
In June, I’d visited every hotel, motel, and B&B in the harbor, passing out Snowden Family Clambake brochures for them to give to guests, but somehow I had missed the Fogged Inn. I was surprised I hadn’t heard it had reopened, the harbor grapevine being what it was.
Of course, I said none of this to the Smiths. Instead, I asked, “What brought you to Busman’s Harbor?”
“Michael has always wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast—to live in a big sea captain’s home overlooking a harbor. So when we retired and this inn came on the market, he thought it was our destiny to own it. We sold our place in Westchester County outside New York City and, well, here we are. It’s been challenging, let me tell you. A constant struggle. The traveling public isn’t what it used to be. But we are living his dream. Our dream,” she corrected.
Michael cleared his throat. “I think you had some questions for us about the man who died?” It was the first time he’d spoken since Mrs. Smith had joined us.
“Yes, thank you. Did you speak to him that night? Do you have any ideas who he might have been?”
“The poor man,” Michael murmured.
“No idea,” Sheila said breezily. “None at all. Didn’t talk to him.”
“Did you happen to notice what time he left?”
“Absolutely not,” Sheila answered for both of them. “We told the state police all this.”
I continued, undeterred. “You paid for your meal with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“Came in the mail,” Michael answered. “Introductory offer, it said. I’d cooked us Thanksgiving dinner. It was just the two of us. We’d been living off turkey in one form or another for days. A meal out sounded like just the thing, even though the roads were treacherous. We didn’t have to go far.”
It was true. Though the Fogged Inn was on the other side of Main and Main, it was only a mile and a half or so from Gus’s restaurant.
“Do you still have the envelope the gift certificate came in?”
“Heavens, no,” Sheila answered. “We don’t keep our trash. Out it goes right away with the recycling to the dump.”
Sheila was as ruthlessly efficient as I was. I hoped I didn’t resemble her in other ways. The conversation was getting me nowhere. I tried one last question. “I noticed as the evening went on, you were chatting with the other couples. Are you friends or acquaintances of the Bennetts, the Caswells, or the Walkers?”
“Certainly not,” Sheila answered. “It was just . . . we were all stuck there . . . and, well, one has to be polite.”
Michael walked me to the door and said good-bye. I climbed down the wide steps and continued out to the sidewalk. When I turned and looked back at the Fogged Inn, he stood, long white lion’s mane surrounding his face, framed by the window in the door, watching me go.
Chapter 13
I walked back down Main Street, chewing on what I’d learned. Which was to say, nothing new, except that I hoped I’d never spend the night in a B&B like the Fogged Inn. If the beds were as uncomfortable as the chairs, it would be like spending a night on the rack.
On the way past the police station, I noticed Lieutenant Binder’s official car in the parking lot. I pushed open the heavy glass door to the building and stepped inside.
“Is he in?” I asked the civilian receptionist, tilting my head toward the door of the large multipurpose room that Binder and Flynn used when they were in town.
“On the phone.”
“I’ll wait.” Through the door I heard the low rumble of a male voice, and then silence as he listened to the person on the other end. Then the voice spoke again.
The voice stopped and the receptionist glanced at the lights on her console. “You can go in now,” she directed.
Binder sat, laptop open, behind a folding table set up to accommodate the state cops on a temporary basis. “Well, speak of the devil and she appears.” He stood and gestured to the folding chair across from him.
“What does that mean?”
“I just got off the phone with one of your many fans. You’ve been bothering people with questions about the man who died in your walk-in.”
Phil Bennett. It had to be. He’d warned me off Deborah and then he’d called Binder to complain.
“Who was it?” As if I didn’t know.
“I’d rather not say. What are you up to? It alarms me you’ve bothered so many people, you can’t figure out which of them complained.” He let that sink in. “Anyway, what brings you in?”
“Jamie—Officer Dawes—said the autopsy was this morning. Any results?”
“If I tell you, will you stop pestering folks and let us do our job?”
I didn’t respond. That depended in large part on how this conversation went.
Binder sighed. “The initial screens are back. That was the ME on the phone just now. Our victim had enough diazepam in his system to subdue him but not enough to kill him.” Diazepam was the generic name for Valium, I knew from my little-used prescription.
“Were there any signs of sedatives in his room?” Jamie had said the search at the Snuggles turned up no drugs.
“Not in his room at the inn. Not on his person.”
“So someone might have given him the sedative in order to subdue him, so they could then give him the injection?”
“That’s the theory. Now we wait for more test results, to see what he might have been injected with.”
Phil Bennett had told me Deborah took medication for panic attacks. Did the police know about this? That brought me up short. Did I actually suspect that one of the diners was a murderer? Not really, was the answer. But I was certain, based on the gift certificates, that someone had brought those specific eight people to the restaurant that night. Why, or what the connection was to the murder, I didn’t know, but I thought it was worth finding out.
“What did the medical examiner say about the dead man’s scar?” I asked.
“She thinks whatever caused it happened a long time ago, when he was a kid. To try to find information about a kid injured like that, years ago, when we have no idea what part of the country . . . Doesn’t make sense.” Binder shook his head. “If he’s a legit guy, with a job and a wife or a girlfriend or kids, someone will report him missing. Then the scar will make it easier to be sure he’s a match.”
“And if he’s not a ‘legit guy’?”
“Then some law enforcement agency somewhere will have run into him. Did he have an accent?”
“No. Not a Maine accent, not a foreign accent.”
Binder shifted in his seat. “Okay, I’ve told you what I know. Time for you to tell me what you’ve been doing.”
I hesitated for a moment, wondering where to start. Binder had known me for a while now. There was not much chance that he’d think I was crazy, but I had a slightly crazy tale to tell.
I took a deep breath. “Someone deliberately gathered those four couples—the Caswells, the Bennetts, the Walkers, and the Smiths—in our restaurant on the night of the murder.” I explained about the gift certificate each of the couples had received.
“It seems to me, someone is trying to steal from you,” Binder said when I finished.
“No, the certificates were all paid for. Someone charged them to a credit card. The only thing added was the expiration date.”
Binder fiddled with his laptop. “Let’s see. The Caswells are retirees from Maryland. They’ve been here for two years, live in that active adult community. The Bennetts have h
ad a house on Eastclaw Point for thirty years, but last winter and spring they renovated it and moved up here from Connecticut full-time this summer. The Walkers have been in town forever. He owns the art supplies store on Main Street. She works at the Cranberry Convalescent Home. Finally,” he continued, “we have the Smiths. They’re from Mamaroneck in Westchester County, New York. Bought the Fogged Inn last November. Started running it as a bed-and-breakfast over Memorial Day this year.” He looked up from the laptop. “You’ve apparently been out questioning people. Did you learn anything more than we did?”
I thought over my visits with each of the couples. “No,” I admitted. “I get it. No obvious connection. And since we don’t know who the dead guy is, there’s no obvious connection to him, either. But it’s it a little hard to believe that the unusual things that happened that night are completely unrelated. A group was gathered in our restaurant. An accident trapped them there. A stranger who came into the restaurant was murdered. That can’t be a coincidence.” The driver of the car in the accident that night has disappeared, I added in my head, because Jamie had sworn me to secrecy.
“It can be,” Binder said, “and it probably is. One thing you learn early in law enforcement is that coincidence is alive and well and far more common than people think.” He paused. “By the way, we took down the crime scene tape this afternoon and gave Gus the go-ahead to use the walk-in. He was cleaning it with bleach before the officers left the restaurant.”
“Thank you for clearing that up quickly.” Much more quickly than when there’d been a murder on Morrow Island last spring and he’d shut down the Snowden Family Clambake, already teetering on the brink of financial ruin, for days and days.
He shrugged. “The walk-in has told us everything it has to tell.” He glanced at his laptop screen, as if anxious to get back to it. “I’ll send someone over to pick the gift certificates up, along with the credit card information. We can get to the bottom of what happened more quickly than you can.”