Mortar and Murder

by Jennie Bentley

  Irina shook her head. “Alexi and Ivan haven’t seen her since the beginning of the semester. Middle of January.”

  “Are they going to check on her?”

  Another head shake. “They live too far. Hours from Kiev. And they are busy. Maybe in a week or two.”

  “I’ve contacted the Kiev police,” Wayne said to me but with a wary look at Irina. “It took a while to find someone who could speak English and understood what I wanted, but he promised he’d send me information on all their missing persons, female, between fifteen and forty.”

  “That’s broad.” Especially since our dead girl was nowhere near either fifteen or forty.

  Wayne shrugged. “I’d rather cast a wide net and catch something than not find what I’m looking for. I don’t think she’s under twenty or over thirty, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “I guess that makes sense. And Svetlana?”

  “I asked them to see if they could track her down at the same time.”

  “Thank you,” Irina said. I could see the worry in her eyes.

  Wayne turned to her. “You’re welcome. I’m not doing it just to set your mind at ease, though. I need to talk to her. Someone wrote your contact info on that scrap of paper, and if she didn’t do it, she might know who did.”

  Irina nodded, but she didn’t speak, her lips pressed together into a tight line.

  We left shortly after that, and I used the Beetle to drive Irina home to Becklea Drive, with a short stop at Shaw’s Supermarket on the way for Irina to pick up a few things for dinner.

  Shaw’s is the biggest supermarket chain in New England; there are stores all over down east Maine, and in Waterfield, it’s the number one grocery store. Everyone I know shops at Shaw’s. I wasn’t surprised to see a few familiar faces in the aisles; I would have been more surprised had I not seen any.

  Brandon Thomas, Wayne’s young deputy, was wheeling a shopping cart through the produce section, and he was so busy smiling at the young woman walking alongside him that I practically had to play bumper-carts to get his attention.

  “Oh.” He flushed. “Hi, Avery.”

  “Hi, Brandon.” I turned my attention to his companion. “Hi.”

  “You . . . um . . . remember Daphne, don’t you? From the state police?” Brandon’s fresh face managed to be sheepish, embarrassed, and proud, all at the same time. He’s twenty-three, blond, blue-eyed, and strapping; the kind of young man who was a star quarterback in high school.

  “Of course I do.” I smiled at Daphne. She and I were old friends; we’d met during the Becklea Drive renovation, when she and her partner Hans had sniffed our yard for human remains. Hans is a regal German shepherd and the state police’s cadaver dog. “How’s Hans?”

  She smiled back, a pretty girl with wide-set blue eyes and a turned-up nose framed by soft, brown hair. “He’s fine. Taking the night off.”

  “And so are you, obviously.”

  “I’m cooking for Brandon and Phoebe,” Daphne said, tossing her ponytail.

  Phoebe Thomas is Brandon’s mother. She’s Wayne’s age, late forties, and suffers from multiple sclerosis. Brandon lives in and takes care of her. He must be pretty serious about Daphne, I thought, if he’d introduced her to his mom and even let her prepare their dinner.

  “You remember Irina, of course? From Becklea Drive?”

  “Of course.” Brandon nodded. “How are you?” His eyes were bright and speculative; he must be aware of the connection between Irina and the body in the water. Daphne didn’t seem to have been filled in; she smiled and extended her hand.

  “Nice to meet you. I don’t think we spoke last fall.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Irina mumbled.

  I turned to Brandon. “Any luck on those fingerprints? Wayne told me you’ve been putting them through all the databases.”

  Brandon shook his head. “I contacted ICE this afternoon. Their database isn’t one I can access, so I e-mailed the prints over to one of their agents to see if they have any record of them. We’ll hear back tomorrow.”

  “Who’s ICE?”

  “They used to be the INS, the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Now they’re ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

  “The border patrol?”

  Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sort of. If the girl is Russian, ICE should have a record of her. If she came here legally, that is.”

  I nodded, with a glance at Irina. She looked uncomfortable. “We should get going. Have a nice dinner. I’ll see you around, Brandon. Daphne, nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” Daphne said.

  They pushed their cart off toward the deli. Irina and I wandered toward the tomatoes.

  Next up was old Miss Barnes from the Historical Society, carrying a basket with a few things in it. I noticed a rather surprising box of double-stuffed Oreos, as well as a couple of cans of cat food.

  Edith Barnes is Derek’s old history teacher, a tall, skinny lady in her seventies, stiff-necked and straight-backed. After retiring from the school system, she went to work for the Fraser House historic home, where the Historical Society is located. I stop by there every so often to look something up, and I’ve always found her to be knowledgeable and helpful, if not precisely friendly. This was the first time I’d run into her outside of work. It was kind of surprising to realize she had a life outside of work.

  “Evening, Miss Barnes.” I gave her my best smile.

  She blinked at me. “Miss Baker.” And then she glanced over my shoulder.

  “Derek isn’t here,” I said. All women adore Derek, and Miss Barnes adores him more than most. “He’s helping his ex-wife with something.”

  Miss Barnes arched her brows.

  “There was a leak in her bathroom.”

  “Ah,” Miss Barnes said. Her eyes lit on Irina.

  “This is Irina Rozhdestvensky. She’s our Realtor. Irina, this is Miss Barnes from the Historical Society. She and I are old friends.”

  That was stretching the truth a little, but by rights we ought to be, as much time as I’d spent picking Miss Barnes’s brain this past year. In fact, since I had her here . . . “Derek and I are renovating a house on one of the islands. Irina found it for us. Do you know anything about the islands?”

  “I know a little,” Miss Barnes allowed. “The Waterfield Historical Society is limited to information about Waterfield history, but I’ve lived here for seventy years, and a few things have remained with me.”

  A whole lot more than a few things, from what I knew of the old bat. She has a brain like flypaper and could be counted on to know something about practically everything that had happened on the coast of Maine in the past several hundred years.

  “Which island is it?” she wanted to know.

  I told her it was Rowanberry and added, “The house is a 1783 center-chimney Colonial. One of two. The other belongs to Gert Heyerdahl, the writer. Irina told Derek they were built for two sisters.” Irina nodded as I said this. “And a guy I met on the ferry this afternoon called it the old van Duren place.”

  “I’m familiar with it.” Miss Barnes nodded. “What would you like to know?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. I just like to have the background on the houses we work on. When something’s been around for two-hundred-plus years, there’s usually a good story or two attached to it.”

  Miss Barnes agreed. “In fact, I think I may have some information in the archives.”

  “Really? Even though it’s not in Waterfield?”

  “There’s a Waterfield connection,” Miss Barnes said. “If you’ll stop by in the next few days, I’ll get the information together for you.”

  “That would be great. Derek keeps me pretty busy, but I’ll try to find some time to get over there this week.”

  Miss Barnes inclined her head regally and moved on toward the dairy coolers. I turned to Irina. “I forgot to ask . . . you’re the one who told Derek about the two sisters, right? Do you know anything more ab
out the place, other than that?”

  “Just the basic information,” Irina said. “John van Duren owned a large part of Rowanberry Island several hundred years ago. He had two daughters. They did not get along. When they got married, their father built them each a house on the island, on opposite sides and facing away from each other.”

  “They must have really not gotten along.”

  “Families sometimes have problems,” Irina said with a shrug. “Siblings don’t always get along.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I’m an only child. My father died when I was thirteen, and for years it was just Mom and me. We’ve always gotten along splendidly. “What happened to them later? Did they make up?”

  “No idea,” Irina said with a shrug. “The other house has changed hands many times. The old man who owned your house refused to sell it, even when he couldn’t live there anymore. He died in a nursing home last year, and that’s when the house finally went on the market.”

  “Wow.” I thought for a moment. “Do you and Svetlana get along?”

  “Svetlana is ten years younger,” Irina said. “When I moved out, she was nine. But we get along well.”

  “And your brothers? Do you get along with them, too?”

  She shrugged. “They’re boys. Men, now. They are different.”

  “No kidding,” I said.

  “They’re married and have children. They’re concentrating on providing for their families.”

  “What about you? Have you ever been married?” She was in her midthirties; it seemed a reasonable question. Not that I’ve ever been married. Most of my friends haven’t, either, come to think of it.

  Her face closed up. “When I was younger. It didn’t last.”

  “In the Ukraine? Or here?”

  “Ukraine. He died.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Is that when you came here?”

  Irina nodded. Behind us, a voice rose, demanding to know if someone thought he was an idiot. The jar of tomato sauce Irina was holding slipped out of her hand and shattered on the floor. Tomato sauce splattered in every direction. I jumped back, straight into someone walking past.

  “Oh! Oops. I’m sorry. Oh. Hello,” I said, recognizing the caretaker from Gert Heyerdahl’s house. He was pushing a wagon with a couple of twelve-packs of Diet Coke, a few boxes of Special K cereal, two gallons of skim milk, a stack of Weight Watchers TV dinners, and a bag of apples. Plus a six-pack of light beer.

  “How are you?” I added with my brightest smile.

  He didn’t answer, of course. Just glanced at Irina, squatting on the floor, her head still bent over the splattered mess of glass shards and tomato sauce, before pushing his wagon away.

  “You shouldn’t mess with that,” I told Irina, “you could cut yourself. They’ll be sending someone to clean it up.”

  In fact, the automated call of “cleanup on aisle seven” was already being broadcast over the speaker system.

  “Who was that?” Irina said, looking after the man. Her cheeks were flushed, apparently over the gaffe with the tomato sauce. Some people don’t like being the center of attention, and other customers were giving us a wide berth, stepping gingerly through the mess and shooting Irina annoyed looks.

  I shrugged. “He’s the caretaker at the other sister’s house on Rowanberry Island, the one that belongs to Gert Heyerdahl. You know, the writer. I ran into him the other day when I walked over there to look at it.”

  “What is it like?” She started walking again, in the opposite direction, leaving the tomato mess behind. I followed.

  “As far as I could tell, it’s really nice. Very well maintained on the outside. There are shutters on all the windows—I guess in case there are storms during the winter—and he wouldn’t let me go inside to look around. Not while Mr. Heyerdahl is away, he said. So all I was able to do was peek through the sidelights on the front door. I didn’t see much.”

  Irina nodded. “Maybe when Mr. Heyerdahl comes back, he’ll let you go inside. When will that be?”

  “Probably May or June. Although I guess it depends on the weather. If it gets warm quickly, maybe he’ll come sooner. Hi.”

  I nodded to the young ferry conductor I’d seen earlier in the day, pushing his way past us with a basket clutched to his chest. It had a few boxes of macaroni and cheese and cans of tuna in it. A man after my own heart; that’s what I eat when I’m cooking for myself, too. He stared at me for a second, maybe trying to place me, before he nodded and moved on. Seemed like everyone in down east Maine was at Shaw’s tonight. It was almost uncanny.

  “Maybe,” Irina agreed, with a thoughtful look in her eyes, still back on the subject of Gert Heyerdahl. “You and Derek will still be working on your house by June, won’t you?”

  “I’m sure we will. I’m not worried about it.” I watched her grab a bag of frozen peas and one of frozen spinach from the freezer cabinet and put them in her basket. “That it?”

  She nodded. “The sooner you take me home, the sooner you can get back to Derek.”

  “Works for me,” I said happily.

  8

  Melissa and Tony the Tiger would be going to upscale Waymouth Tavern for dinner, so Derek and I decided to head in the opposite direction, geographically and economically, to Guido’s Pizzeria.

  It’s a small cinderblock building not too far from Becklea Drive, which again isn’t too far from Barnham College. As always, Guido’s parking lot was full of beat-up trucks and economy cars with out-of-state license plates and college parking stickers, and the neon sign in the window flickered HOT-HOT-HOT, like a strip joint.

  Inside, there was the usual hubbub. Floor-to-ceiling college kids, loud music, louder conversation, and a couple of waitresses in tight jeans and midriff-baring tops carrying pizzas over their heads through the throng.

  As it often was, the big table in the back was occupied by people we knew: Shannon McGillicutty, Kate’s daughter; Josh Rasmussen, Wayne’s son; and their friends, Paige Thompson and Ricky Swanson.

  Josh and Shannon have been best friends since Shannon moved to Waterfield seven years ago. Now, of course, they’re step-siblings, as well. Add to that the fact that Josh is crazy about her while she seems totally oblivious, and you have the makings of a fine tragedy, comedy, or both.

  Not that anything tragic seemed to be in the offing. All four of them greeted us with smiles and invitations to join them.

  “So what’s this about a body in the ocean?” Josh asked, scooting closer to Shannon. I slipped in beside him.

  “Hasn’t your dad told you?” Derek wanted to know, sliding in next to Ricky on the other side of the table.

  “I don’t see him as much now that we’re not living together. Brandon came around with a photograph earlier today to see if anyone at Barnham knew her, but he didn’t tell me much. Just that you’d found her in the water.” Josh shrugged.

  Josh is tall and lanky like his dad, with the same curly, dark hair, and bright eyes behind round glasses. Up until Wayne and Kate’s wedding, he and his dad had shared a condo on the outskirts of Waterfield. Now he was living there alone. At one point, Shannon had been talking about moving in—to get away from the newlyweds and the B&B—but I guess once we’d turned the carriage house into a romantic retreat for two and Kate and Wayne had moved out there, Shannon decided just to stay in the Waterfield Inn.

  “I don’t know that there’s a whole lot more to tell,” Derek said. “She was floating in the water halfway between Moosehead Island and Rowanberry a couple mornings ago. Dead from exposure. The water’s cold.”

  “She was young,” I added. “Around twenty-five, maybe. Short, like Paige and me. Long, blond hair. She was dressed in a white summer top and a pair of Gloria Jeans.”

  “I’ve never heard of those,” Shannon said, flipping her black cherry hair over her shoulder. Shannon is gorgeous, with her mother’s Playboy Bunny figure and her father’s compelling dark eyes.

  “They’re Russian. You can find them in New Yo
rk if you know where to look, but mostly they’re for sale in Eastern Europe.”

  “So is the girl Russian, too, then?” This was Paige, her little-girl voice soft. She’s a tiny thing, no taller than me and ethereal-looking. We’re both short blondes, in other words, but where I’m sturdy, with rosy cheeks and bright hair, Paige is translucent; her hair is pale and her skin almost colorless, her body waiflike inside an oversized sweatshirt. She looks like a strong wind could knock her over.

  “They’re not sure yet,” Derek said. “Brandon can’t find any record of her.”

  I nodded. “I saw him at Shaw’s Supermarket just now. He said he had sent her fingerprints to ICE, since he hadn’t been able to find a match on his own.

  “He was with Daphne,” I added, “the canine handler from the state police in Augusta. You know, the one who brought her dog down to sniff the yard on Becklea Drive this fall. And who came down to sniff Peter Cortino’s auto shop in December.”

  Derek nodded. “Hans. I remember. And Brandon told you he sent the fingerprints to Immigration and Customs?”

  “He did. I guess they’re going on the assumption that if she was wearing Russian clothes, she might be Russian. Are there any Russian girls going to Barnham College?” I looked around the table.

  The four students exchanged glances.

  “None I know of,” Shannon said.

  “We didn’t recognize the photograph,” Paige added.

  “If she’s twenty-five, she’s too old for Barnham, anyway,” Josh contributed.

  Ricky nodded. He doesn’t usually say a whole lot. But at least these days he looks you straight in the eye, instead of peering furtively out through curtains of dark hair, the way he used to do. Or usually he does; now I thought he might be avoiding my eyes.

  Before I could pursue the thought, Derek had continued. “Brandon probably asked you if you knew of any party-hardy students who may have had something to do with this, right? Like, a boat party with alcohol a few days ago?”

  “Barnham isn’t really a party school,” Josh offered. “I’m sure there are people here who have a few drinks, or a few bottles of beer, on the weekend, but campus security almost never has to break up loud frat parties or anything like that.”