by Barbara Ross
“A man came here about six months ago asking for the same report. I gave him a copy.”
“Was he in his forties, long dark hair, scar on his lower face?”
“That was him. I assumed he was the son. He said he wanted to find out who had left the cigarette. I told him he’d never be able to do it. Couldn’t do it back then. Can’t do it now. Besides, what good would it do?”
So Austin Lowe had been looking for information about his parents’ deaths. That had to figure into his murder somehow. I offered to pay for my copy, but Mr. Dudley waved me away. “This house contains thousands of stories, thousands of people’s lives, often the saddest, most difficult parts. I can’t bring myself to get rid of these files. I’m always glad when someone can use them.”
Chapter 24
Enid Lowe’s townhouse was ten miles in the opposite direction, so I decided to visit the other addresses first. According to my phone, the Lowes’ burned property was the one nearest Tom Dudley’s house. I put the address in the GPS and rode by. The house, near Mill Pond, had been torn down and replaced by a large, bland colonial. Staring at the newer house from inside the cab, comparing it to my memory of the photo in the paper, I couldn’t even figure out exactly how the Lowes’ antique home had fit on the lot. The scene of the fire told me nothing.
Not far from the address where the Lowes’ home had stood was the Hoopers’ house, where Enid Sparks had stolen the car. That was one of the craziest parts of this crazy story. Enid was a woman in her sixties, a registered nurse, a respectable person by all accounts. She had worked at the Hoopers’ house so many years before, they hadn’t remembered she had a key until Jamie had sent them her description. Why would she go to a relative stranger’s house, steal their car, and drive nearly five hours to Busman’s Harbor? Surely not to redeem a gift certificate.
The Hoopers’ house was big and solid. Based on lot size alone, I would have called it an estate. Three bays of an attached garage faced a hard-topped driveway that wound to the street. The yard was carefully laid out. Someone, not the Hoopers I was sure, had put burlap hoods over the smaller bushes to protect them from the rapidly approaching winter. The house was obviously empty, its occupants gone. I drove on.
The next house by distance was Austin Lowe’s. I assumed it was a house, because when I’d looked up the address at the library, it contained no identifying information beyond the street number—no apartment number or letter, no “R” to indicate it was a guesthouse or garage. My brief check on the web at the library held no indication of a wife or kids, but bachelors did live alone in houses in the suburbs. It wasn’t impossible.
My route took me to a neighborhood on Long Island Sound called Sachem’s Head. My plan was to drive by and get a sense of Austin Lowe’s life, and if I got lucky, to find an answer the question of whether he was missing. Mail piling up in the box, that sort of thing.
But when I turned the corner, five police vehicles—two Connecticut state police cars, a Connecticut state evidence van, a Maine state police car I recognized instantly, and a Busman’s Harbor cruiser—were parked on the lane, which dead-ended at the water just beyond.
As I stared at the house, the front door opened and Jamie stepped out onto the porch. When he spotted me in the cab, his mouth fell open. Mine did the same. What were they doing here? Even more baffling, how did they get here so quickly? I’d talked to Jamie in Gus’s parking lot less than half an hour before I left Busman’s Harbor.
He shouted something back into the house. As I started up the long path from the street, Binder and Flynn stepped through the open door.
“How did you end up here?” I asked when I reached the porch.
“You first,” Flynn commanded.
“I realized all the couples in the restaurant the night of the murder had a connection to Connecticut,” I explained. “I came to find out how the Lowes died. I had no idea they had a son until I read the local paper’s report on the fire. I decided to check Austin Lowe out to see if he could be the body in the walk-in.” I didn’t want to say that Jamie had told me Enid Sparks’s name. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to. “Your turn,” I said to Binder.
“So you know about the fire.” Binder paused, then apparently decided to go ahead and tell me what I pretty much already knew. “We found out the drowning victim was a woman named Enid Sparks. She had a nephew, and when Officer Dawes asked the local cops to do the death notification, they came over and found the mailbox overflowing. They reported to us, and we put two and two together.”
“See,” I said. “I’ve been right all along. Enid Sparks was the sister of Madeleine Lowe. The diners in the restaurant that night are all connected. And one of them was the killer.”
Binder waited for me to take a breath, his mouth slightly upturned, a look of amusement in his eyes. That amusement annoyed me before he even spoke. “You’re right. They are all connected, but none of them is our perpetrator.”
By that point, I’d had it. “How many times do I have to be right before you give me a little credit? I’ve been more right about this case than you guys from day one.”
Binder stared at Flynn, who looked away in disgust. Then Binder stepped aside so I could enter. “I think you better come inside.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Flynn ordered.
We walked through a well-appointed living room and past a gleaming modern kitchen. “What did this guy do for a living?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Flynn answered. “That’s one of the reasons no one reported him missing. We figure he inherited a ton of money. Won’t be certain until we can follow the paperwork trail on Monday.”
That made sense. Deborah had said Howell Lowe’s father was so rich he didn’t need to work. We went down a long hall toward what I could only guess was a home office or den. The three of them stepped aside so I could be first into the room.
“Oh, my God.” An entire wall of the room was covered with photos and documents. I stepped closer. At the center of the wall was a copy of the photo I’d found at the yacht club. “This is it! This is the photo I’ve been telling you about. See, everyone who was at the restaurant was there!” In my excitement, I jabbed a finger at the photocopy.
“Don’t touch,” Flynn hissed.
Next to the photo was the picture of the burned-out home that had been on the front page of the Shoreline Times. Radiating out from it were photos of each member of the Rabble Point set as they looked today. I recognized that Barry’s was clipped from his store website and Phil’s from his company’s annual report. Deborah’s was from the story in our local paper about the house and garden tour last summer. Sheila’s was her official portrait as a judge, and so on. On the far right of the wall was a map with each couple’s former home marked on it, as well as their addresses in Busman’s Harbor and the year they moved. Below the map was my missing gift certificate and a copy of the insurance report like the one I’d collected from Tom Dudley. Linking all of the photos, documents, and maps were handwritten arrows drawn directly on the wall along with a a scrawl of handwriting every bit as illegible as Austin Lowe’s signature in the Snuggles Inn guest book.
“This proves it!” I said. “One of the people in the restaurant that night is the killer. The person who left the lit cigarette in the Lowes’ couch is afraid of being exposed. They’re covering up their guilt. Why don’t you see that?”
Binder snorted in exasperation, losing patience with me. “We found something else. Not here, but at Enid Sparks’s home.” Binder gave me a letter, handwritten on lined paper, already in an evidence bag.
Through the plastic, I read:
To Whom It May Concern
I let myself into my nephew’s home after receiving a cryptic and alarming phone message from him about his intentions.
Austin was gravely injured in a fire that killed his parents. As a young boy, he spent many painful months in the hospital, followed by years of therapies and surgeries designed to prevent scar tissue from hampering his flexibility
as he grew.
Perhaps all that has happened is my fault. I never told Austin that one of the guests at his parents’ New Year’s Eve party had probably started the fire. I never saw what good it would do to assign blame. But a year ago, somebody in town, innocently I’m sure, repeated the story that has always gone around. One of us that night left a lit cigarette smoldering in the couch cushions.
I’ve never known if the story was true, and even if it were true, how would we ever know who did it? It was supposed to be one of the happiest nights of my life. Barry Walker and I announced our engagement. There were many toasts and congratulations. After Dan’s death and Phil and Sheila’s divorce, we were all joyous to have something to celebrate.
But after the fire, we could never look at each other again. The loss of Madeleine and Howell was the final death knell for our childhood friendship. I devoted myself completely to Austin’s care. I had to grow up quickly. I went to nursing school in part so I’d have the money to raise him until his trust fund became available when he was twenty-one, and in part because I thought it would help me care for such a profoundly injured child. Barry saw I had no time for him, no thought for him, no love left over to give him. Eventually he moved away, and I settled in to raise Austin.
After Austin found out how the fire started, he became obsessed with figuring out who had left the cigarette. I thought his interest was unhealthy, but not dangerous. Then six months or so ago, he started saying things like, “Wait ’til I get my hands on the person who . . .” I fault myself. I was in denial. I couldn’t believe the dear, sweet boy I had raised had turned into a vengeful monster.
But then I went into his study and saw what he had up on the wall. I believe he thinks he knows who left the cigarette. He has gathered them all at a restaurant not far from our sunniest days at Rabble Point.
I am going to stop him. I don’t have a car, but I’m going to borrow one, drive to that restaurant, and prevent him from killing one of my childhood friends, whatever it takes. I cannot bear to think of my dear, sweet boy spending his life in prison. I cannot bear to think of him taking a life. I’ll do whatever I have to do to stop him.
If you’re reading this, it is because my plan has gone terribly wrong. You’re in my home because I have not returned. All I can say is, I am sorry, and I pray no one else has been hurt.
Enid Sparks
“There you have it,” Binder said when I’d finished.
“It’s so terribly sad.” I was still processing what I’d read.
“That it is. We have to get the handwriting verified and prove she had the insulin. She was a nurse, so it’s more than likely. We’ll do the work, but we’ve solved both our murder and Officer Dawes’s Jane Doe case.”
“She killed him and then, out of remorse, jumped off the town pier,” Flynn added, in case I wasn’t keeping up.
My thoughts were slowly coming into focus. “But even if she killed him with the insulin, who gave him the Valium? That had to have been in his soup or his drink, and I never saw her come into the restaurant.”
“It was a busy night. You’re the chief waiter, barmaid, and bottle washer there. Perhaps she lingered outside and slipped in when he was in the restroom. She wouldn’t have wanted to arouse his suspicion,” Binder answered.
“She didn’t come in,” I insisted. It hadn’t been a busy night. “I would have seen her. Or Chris would have. Also, you can’t see into the restaurant from the street, so how could she ‘linger’? It doesn’t make sense.” Another thought occurred to me. “If she’s been dead since the night of the murder, who’s been breaking into my apartment and stealing evidence? Who stole the photograph from the yacht club?”
Binder lowered his head, and then raised it, looking me directly the eye. “I don’t discount that maybe something else is going on, but we’ve found our killer. Rest assured, we’ll work with Officer Dawes to clear up the rest of these incidents when we get back to Busman’s Harbor. Now it’s time for you to go home.”
Chapter 25
I was dismissed. I handed Binder the evidence bag with the letter in it and turned to go. I lingered, briefly, on Austin Lowe’s porch, looking off across his rolling lawn.
“I believe you.”
“What?”
Jamie had come up behind me. “I believe someone has been in your apartment. You’re not a careless person, Julia. You don’t mislay things. You certainly didn’t lose the original photo from the yacht club. I’m going to be stuck here another day, but as soon as I get home, I’ll get right to work on your break-ins.”
I clasped his forearm through his uniform jacket and gave a quick squeeze. Of all the cops he knew me best, and he believed me.
“Can you tell from the collage on the wall who left the cigarette?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Can you at least tell who Austin Lowe thought it was?”
“It looks like gibberish to us.”
I walked down the winding front path, got into the driver’s seat, and sat for a few moments, collecting myself. Then I turned the key in the ignition and put the old cab in drive. As I pulled away, Jamie still stood in the doorway.
I made good time in Connecticut. The GPS took me back a different way than it had brought me, I-91 to I-84, and I was too tired, sad, and worn down to argue with her. The route would keep me well west of Boston, but I was bound to run into somebody’s rush hour somewhere. Before I left Connecticut, I stopped at Rein’s Deli on 84. There was no way I was going to make to back Gus’s Too in time for dinner service. I called Chris as soon as I pulled into the parking lot.
“Did you solve it?” he asked.
“Well, somebody solved it,” I said.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“Long story. I’ll fill you in when I get there. Are you okay for tonight?”
“Fine, fine. Livvie came in to help me set up, and Sam will be here with me tonight. Take your time. Be sure to take breaks. You’ve put in a long day and you’ve got a lot of driving left to do.”
“Aye, aye.”
It was late afternoon and already dark, distinctly off hours even for Rein’s, so I managed to avoid its long lines. I ordered a Reuben, and the first delicious bite transported me back to my New York City life. You can’t find a Reuben in Maine. You might find something on a menu called a Reuben, but it will not be the same.
I went to the washroom, then got in the cab and pointed it north and east toward home. If you’d asked me a year ago if I would ever call Busman’s Harbor home again, I would have said no, emphatically. But at that moment, I couldn’t think of a single other place I wanted to be.
I got off the highway in Worcester and made my way back to the Dunkin Donuts where I’d stopped on the way down. I noticed several people waving at me frantically and wondered what could be up, until I remembered I was driving a cab.
I obsessed about the case as I drove. The murderer and the accident victim, all tied up with a bow. The solution was too neat, and at the same time it left too many loose ends. I was sure, from his supportive words on Austin Lowe’s porch, Jamie agreed with me. But he was a local cop, and a junior one at that. I had no assurance they’d listen to him. I didn’t even know if he’d speak up.
Enid Sparks had written that she’d do “whatever it took” to stop her nephew, but she hadn’t said outright she planned to kill him. And yes, as a nurse, she probably had access to insulin, but so did several of the others. Henry Caswell was a doctor. Fran Walker worked at a convalescent home. Phil Bennett was a former pharmaceutical executive, though that seemed farther fetched. It’s not like they’d have free samples sitting out in the employee lounge.
Which one had the strongest motive? If they had been working, Phil Bennett the executive, Henry the doctor, Michael the attorney and Sheila the federal judge would have had the most to lose. But now that they were retired, the revelation that one of them negligently caused two deaths forty years earlier would be hurtful and humiliating but wouldn�
��t have the same consequences as it would have had they public reputations to protect.
I was certain, though, that the living members of the Rabble Point set were involved and one of them was a murderer. I had been right from the beginning. The state cops had ignored me again and again, but I was still right.
The green sign on the Piscataqua Bridge that said STATE LINE-MAINE-VACATIONLAND was the symbol for every traveling Mainer that they were home. I was edgy and due for a break, but I pressed on to the Kennebunk rest stop.
I got back to the restaurant when dinner service was all but over. A few couples finished their dessert as Chris cleaned the grill and Sam shut down the bar. There was a mound of dishes by the dishwasher. No way had they been able to keep up.
I gave Chris a quick hug and ran upstairs. I washed my hands and face, then went down and started on the dishes. Later, after Sam went home, Chris and I lingered over beers at one of the restaurant tables and I outlined the events of the day. He was shocked by the story of the fire, Austin Lowe’s plot, and Enid Sparks’s desperate act.
He walked the garbage out to the Dumpster and locked the kitchen door when he returned. “Considering this case is all wound up, you don’t seem very happy,” he said.
“I’m not. If Enid’s been dead since the night it happened, who’s been breaking in here? And her note didn’t exactly say she planned to kill her nephew, just that she would do whatever it took to stop him.”
Chris gave me a hug. “You’ll figure it out.”
He had more confidence in me than I did.
* * *
It had been a long, tiring day, filled with discoveries, emotion, and a nearly six-hundred-mile round-trip drive. I should have fallen asleep instantly, but I didn’t. My mind moved relentlessly, turning every piece of the investigation over and over.
In the past six weeks, I’d gotten used to the nighttime sounds of the old warehouse—beams contracting as the weather grew colder, the rattle of ill-fitting windows, the whir of the ancient apartment refrigerator as it turned on. But that night, I startled at every sound, heart racing, blood pounding in my ears.