by Barbara Ross
He blew out a breath, slowing his speech and softening his tone. “We’ll follow up on everything you’ve given us, I promise. But you have to let me do it my way. With any luck, there’s an ID for our victim in his backpack and we’re halfway home. Give us some time. We’ll get this.”
There was a shout from under the restaurant. “On my way.” Binder headed toward the building.
* * *
Moments later, Jamie strolled into the parking lot, a wide grin on his face. “Not even eight in the morning and we’ve had big breaks in both cases. You and Gus found the backpack,” he said, unlike Binder giving credit where credit was due. “And we discovered the identity of our car crash victim.”
“Wow. How did you manage that?”
“I sent a general description of the victim to the Hoopers in Costa Rica. They finally remembered that ten years ago, when the husband had a knee replacement, he had several visits from a private nurse during his recuperation. They gave her a key so he didn’t have to get up to let her in. Somehow, they dredged the name out of their memories.”
“So, spill. Who is she?”
Jamie hesitated. I could tell he was debating whether to tell me. Finally, friendship won out. “A woman named Enid Sparks. We’ve confirmed she hasn’t been seen in her apartment complex since the accident.”
I got so excited, I nearly levitated. “Enid Sparks is the name of one of the women in the photo from the yacht club! She was the sister of Madeleine Lowe, the woman who died.” I gave him the fastest summary I could of finding the photo, talking to the women in it, and then having it stolen.
Jamie was as excited as I was. “That’s it. She got the missing gift certificate and was rushing to meet the others at your restaurant. She got into the accident, became disoriented, and fell off the town pier.”
“Maybe. But none of the other gift certificate holders knew it was a reunion, and Enid lived far out of state. Receiving a gift certificate in the mail wouldn’t be a reason to take a car without permission and drive all this way.”
His shoulders slumped. “You’re right. It’ll come, Julia. Give us time.”
Give us time. Exactly what Binder said.
* * *
Enid Sparks. The only living—or rather, recently living—woman from the photograph who was not at Gus’s Too the night of the murder. There had to be a connection.
Enid Sparks had “borrowed” a car in Connecticut. Everything in the case kept pointing back to that state. The Bennetts had moved to Busman’s Harbor from Connecticut. The diploma on Henry Caswell’s wall said Yale School of Medicine. Fran Walker said she and Michael broke up because she “stayed in Maine. He was in Connecticut.”
At one point, almost all the members of the Rabble Point set had lived in Connecticut. One of them still did. Or at least she had until very recently. Enid Sparks.
I shook myself, bringing my mind back to the present. Binder, Flynn, the crime scene techs, and now Jamie were under Gus’s building. Why was it taking them so long to bring out the backpack?
I went upstairs to my apartment and started my laptop.
It didn’t take long to find Enid Sparks’s address in North Guilford, Connecticut. The street view on Google Maps showed a well-kept townhouse apartment complex.
I gave my credit card number to a genealogy site and found death certificates for the Lowes. Both had died on January 1, 1974, in Guilford, Connecticut. There was no further information available, so I searched the web, hoping for obituaries or an article about their accident, but I found nothing in the major papers. Apparently the local papers in their area hadn’t digitized their back issues yet. The accident was too long ago.
I checked the distance from Busman’s Harbor to Guilford. Two hundred ninety miles, five hours of driving. Binder might have a problem with me tramping around Busman’s Harbor asking people questions, but he couldn’t object to my going to Connecticut. He’d warned me the perpetrator in the case was likely dangerous, but everyone related to the case in Connecticut was dead. That couldn’t be dangerous.
I called Chris. “I have to go to Connecticut.” I said it right out. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“Whoa.” Chris was silent. Maybe I should have built up to it. So I backtracked, filling him in on the events of the morning. Chris asked the obvious question. “Why not let the cops do this?”
“They’re so excited about the backpack and the possibility there’s an ID for the stranger in it. They’ll follow up on what I’ve told them eventually, but in the meantime I’m sick of being afraid in my own home. I’ve been more right than they’ve been all along. The diners are connected to one another, just as I’ve been saying. And now Enid Sparks connects them to the car accident. I have to keep going.”
More silence from the other end. Then Chris said, “Okay. I’ll ask Livvie to help with setup and Sam to help me serve and tend the bar.”
Sam. He was the perfect solution. As part owner of Crowley’s, he’d done every job you could do in a restaurant. And with Crowley’s closed during the week, he was available. I hated asking Livvie to do extra work during her pregnancy, but I knew she would come through for us, with a smile on her face. My sister was reliable like that.
“You shouldn’t drive that heap of yours all that way,” Chris said. “I’m at my cabin. Stop here on your way and switch the Caprice for my cab. It could use the exercise.” The long trips to the Portland Jetport were over for the season.
“Thank you.” How I loved that man.
Chapter 23
I stopped at the Kennebunk rest stop on 95 to stretch my legs, use the facilities, and get coffee. I made another stop for the same purposes at a Dunkin Donuts off Route 290 in Worcester, Massachusetts, and then made my way into Connecticut, following I-395 to I-95 along the shoreline. Chris had a GPS in the cab. Although they were often wildly misleading in parts of Maine, I trusted it to get me to up-market Connecticut.
Despite the GPS, I somehow missed the exit for Guilford off 95 and had to drive to the next one while she scolded me with a huffy “Recalculating.”
On the way into town on Route One, I passed Bishop’s Orchards Farm Market, which had a giant apple on its sign. I remembered last summer when I’d driven past Wild Blueberry Land in Down East Maine while searching for a fugitive. I wondered fleetingly if all my quests would be marked by giant fruit.
I came into the center of Guilford and drove around the spacious town green, which was surrounded on three sides by churches of different denominations, along with the town hall, colonial houses, and the Guilford Savings Bank. The green was so pretty and peaceful, I had to remind myself I’d come to town to solve a murder. I’d had the whole ride to think about what I planned to do. I had the address for Enid Sparks’s apartment, but I didn’t go there right away. After all, I knew she wasn’t home.
I had the date Madeleine and Howell died, but I wanted to know more about their accident. I drove to the public library. It was a handsome brick Federalist revival building just off the green, with a new wing that looked bigger than the old building. The town of Guilford obviously cared about its library. Inside, a helpful reference librarian confirmed that issues of the local paper weren’t online, but they had microfiche. She set me up at a workstation.
I sat down at the machine, nervously scrolling back through issues, looking for an article about Madeleine and Howell’s deaths. According to the genealogy site, they’d died on New Year’s Day, so I tried the next issue of the weekly Shoreline Times dated Thursday, January 3.
I didn’t have to look hard.
The Lowes’ deaths were front-page news, accompanied by a huge black-and-white photo of a devastated home. Their house had caught fire in the predawn hours of New Year’s Day, after an evening spent entertaining friends. A neighbor spotted the flames from his bathroom window. The house had been fully involved by the time the fire department arrived.
I leaned back in the hard library chair, taking this in. I’d assumed by “accident
,” Caroline meant automobile. I hadn’t been prepared for this. I knew something about house fires, having survived one at our place on Morrow Island in the spring. They were terrifying.
The cause of the Lowes’ fire was not immediately determined. The paper mentioned that the guests from the previous night were being interviewed as a part of the investigation. There were photos and bios of Madeleine and Howell. He had commuted to Wall Street, where he worked for a well-known brokerage. She had been active in town life, volunteering at the thrift shop at the Unitarian church and a local senior center.
But there was one thing in the article that I kept reading over and over. The Lowes’ son, Austin, had been rescued from his bedroom in a separate wing of the house. The five-year-old had been badly burned, but he had survived.
When Caroline Caswell had said the Lowes “died young” and didn’t get to raise a family, I’d eliminated the possibility of children. But “young” for someone Caroline’s age had a different meaning than it did for me. The Lowes had a son.
I sat at the terminal for a few moments, thinking about the man at the bar, the scar that snaked up his neck and his prosthetic ear. It had to be. Who else could it have been? I should have been elated at finally making the connection, but the tragedy sat heavily in my chest. A young couple dead. A little boy orphaned and scarred for life.
I scrolled through several more issues of the weekly paper, looking for a follow-up story. Perhaps the news that Austin had been discharged from the hospital, or that the fire investigation had been concluded. But as big as the news about the Lowes had been when the fire occurred, the accounts disappeared immediately afterward.
I was tempted to call Lieutenant Binder right away, or at least call Jamie, who now had an undoubtedly related case, but my instincts told me not yet. The more I knew, the more compelling my information would be.
I wondered if files from fire investigations were housed in the police archives and if I could get someone to give me a look.
Before I left the library, I used one of their computers to look up an address for Austin Lowe in Guilford and for the Hoopers, whose car Enid had stolen. Then the nice librarian directed me to the police records office about a mile away.
* * *
“Fill out the form, pay your fee,” said the middle-aged woman behind the window at the records office.
“Before I do, I want to ask if you’d even have the record I’m looking for.”
“When was the accident?”
I got it then. This was the place to get accident reports that were needed to file car insurance claims after a collision. My hopes dimmed. “1974. An investigation into a fatal fire.”
Her officiousness melted away. “Ah, honey, that wouldn’t be here. Best case, it would be in the state archives in Middletown. But I wouldn’t bet on it. That’s a long time ago, and all the files were paper back then.”
What had I expected?
I must have looked so dispirited that she tried to help. “Do you have the name of the insurance carrier or agent?”
“No. Sorry.”
She leaned across the counter. “I don’t know if this will help, but there’s a retired insurance agent in town, Tom Dudley. He’s kind of a pack rat, and back in the time period you’re talking about, he insured almost everyone in town. He’s kept every file. It’s a long shot, but some other people I’ve sent his way have had good luck.”
* * *
I punched Tom Dudley’s address into the GPS in the cab. As I drove slowly through the historic district near the green, listening to the dulcet tones of the GPS, I noticed many houses had plaques proudly proclaiming they were built in the 1600s, 1700s, or 1800s.
Tom Dudley lived in a Victorian house on a generous lot. I parked on the curbless street and walked up the drive. A screened-in porch ran along the entire side of the house. My heart sank when I saw its jumble of broken furniture and cardboard boxes. The records clerk had described Tom Dudley as a pack rat. If he had the insurance report about the fire, would he be able to find it? As I got closer, I could smell the mildew coming off the boxes. Even if he could find the report, would it be in any condition for me to read it?
When he answered the door, Mr. Dudley was a surprisingly tidy man somewhere in his late seventies or eighties with wisps of white hair and an impressive mustache.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Julia Snowden. I’m sorry to turn up like this. The clerk at the police records office sent me over. I’m looking for any information you have on a fatal fire here in Guilford. She said you might be able to help.”
“You better come in, then.”
We stepped into his front hall. From there, I could see into the living room, dining room, and den. I needn’t have worried. The house was as neat as a pin, though every room was lined with old metal filing cabinets.
“Do you have the date of the fire?”
“January 1, 1974.”
“Howell and Madeleine Lowe. I’ve got that right here.”
“You remember.”
“I do.” He looked at the carpet. “A great tragedy. Early that morning, my late wife and I heard the siren go off, calling the volunteers to the fire station. We wondered what was going on. I’ll remember that call from the fire chief to my dying day.” He went to a file cabinet in what should have been the living room and opened a drawer. He pulled out a sheaf of white paper held together by a brad. “You’re welcome to sit while you read it.” He gestured to a leather chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks, but I will sit.”
The insurance report was four tightly spaced pages, obviously typed on a typewriter. The first part was a form with all the pertinent information, address, owner names (Howell and Madeleine Lowe), age of dwelling (1700s), type of construction (wood frame). No wonder the place had gone up like a tinderbox. The report stated that two victims had succumbed to smoke inhalation and were deceased when the fire department found them. One juvenile was rescued and had been transported to Yale New Haven Hospital and later transferred to the newly opened Connecticut Burn Center at Bridgeport Hospital.
The rest of the report was a straightforward recitation in prose. The fire had begun in a couch, almost certainly from an improperly disposed cigarette. There were no signs of accelerant, though once the couch was burning, the fire had spread rapidly due to the presence of a dried Christmas tree standing in a nearby corner.
There had been a New Year’s Eve celebration at the house that night. The report listed the participants. Attending, in addition to the victims, were Enid Sparks, the female decedent’s sister; Deborah and Phillip Bennett; Henry and Caroline Caswell; Michael Smith; Sheila Bennett; Barry Walker; and Fran Chapman. The evening had involved much celebrating and many cocktails. Everyone except Enid Sparks was a smoker. All of those present had sat on the couch at one time or another. Toward the end of the evening, the couch had been mostly occupied by the women.
I sat back in Tom Dudley’s leather chair. The weight of the tragedy astonished me. The Lowes were dead, their son grievously injured, and all of the childhood friends had been in the house that evening. Had they all spent the last forty-plus years wondering who left the cigarette? Did they know, or suspect, who had done it? No wonder they didn’t want to see each other again. They hadn’t drifted apart, separated by geography, as so many of them had assured me. The Rabble Point set had exploded on that cold January morning.
The rest of the report consisted of interviews with all the surviving party guests. No one remembered losing a lit cigarette. Barry Walker confessed that not only did he not remember losing a cigarette, he didn’t remember much of the evening at all. It was hard for me to imagine that all these inebriated people got into their cars and drove home, though apparently they had. But then, it was hard for me to imagine a party at which almost everyone was smoking, and smoking inside the house. A lot had changed in forty years.
The last interview listed was with Fran—a telephone
interview because she had returned to Maine. Unlike the others, she said she’d had one glass of wine and was able to give a sober account of the evening. She reported everyone’s movements in detail. The party had begun with cocktails in the living room. Five-year-old Austin had been there to greet them and then had been put to bed. The adults moved to the dining room for dinner. The celebrants returned to the living room to ring in the New Year. Fran reinforced what everyone else had reported. At one time or another, each one of them had sat on that couch, including Madeleine and Howell. At the end of the evening, the people on the couch had been Caroline Caswell, Sheila Bennett, and Fran herself. I had to admire Fran’s straightforwardness with the investigator.
There had been no sign of anything amiss when the guests departed, the report concluded. Howell and Madeleine had evidently gone straight to bed without doing much cleanup. The idea of them leaving the party dishes for the morning, a morning that never came, brought a tightness to my chest and tears to my eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Can I take this to the library and make a copy?” I asked.
“I never let these documents out of my sight,” Mr. Dudley responded, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to safeguard decades-old insurance reports. “But I can make a copy for you right here.”
I handed the report to him, and he disappeared through a swinging door. I heard a copier rev up and then chunk-chunk-chunk through the pages. Tom Dudley was back in a jiff with a neatly stapled copy, which he inserted in a new manila envelope.
“Are you working with the other man?” he asked. “What other man?” Had the cops already been there?