Mortar and Murder

by Jennie Bentley

  “You looking for Irina?” Arthur changed the subject.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Derek was still behind the house and out of sight. “That’s right. Have you seen her today?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Not since yesterday,” he said. “She came home in the late afternoon and then left again around six. Haven’t seen her since.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “Camping,” Arthur said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She had on jeans and a sweater, and she was carrying a big backpack with a sleeping bag attached.”

  “Wow.” I had a hard time picturing Irina in jeans and a sweater; every time I’d seen her, she’d been dressed in a severe business suit, with her hair so tightly scraped back from her face that her eyebrows were elevated. Then again, I’d pretty much only seen her when she was working. It stood to reason that she had to have a personal life, too. Maybe she spent every weekend tramping around in nature.

  “Oh, no,” Arthur said when I suggested this, shaking his head. “Not at all. I’ve never seen her do it before. Usually she works on the weekends. She works all the time.”

  “I don’t suppose she told you where she was going?”

  But she hadn’t. Of course not.

  Behind me, Derek came toward us across the grass, his approach accompanied by growls and tiny yips from Stella. He stopped next to me and put a hand out. “Arthur.”

  Arthur shook it, of course. Apparently it was OK to shake Derek’s hand when his own was dirty; just not mine.

  “Anything?” Derek asked me.

  I repeated what Arthur had said. “What about you?”

  His shook his head, a floppy lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Nothing. The place is locked up tight. No way to know whether she talked to Agent Trent or not.”

  “Agent Trent?” Arthur repeated.

  “Lori Trent, special agent with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. She was up from Boston to talk to Irina about the body of a young Russian woman who was found in the sea earlier this week.” Derek’s voice was bland, giving no hint that we knew anything more about the body than anyone else would.

  “I met Agent Trent.” Arthur dug in the pocket of his khakis and came up with a battered business card. It had the logo of ICE on it, Lori Trent’s name, and an address and phone number in Boston. “She stopped by yesterday afternoon.”

  “Before or after Irina left?”

  Arthur thought back. “Before. About one o’clock or so. Irina came back around five and left again around six.”

  Derek and I exchanged a look. So there was still time for Agent Trent to have pinned Irina down in Portland or downtown Waterfield in the hours between one and five. There was probably time for Irina to have bashed her over the head with something and to have tipped her into the water, too. That kind of thing is a lot harder to do in broad daylight, but not impossible. And it would explain why Irina had grabbed a backpack and her sleeping bag and disappeared.

  Down at the corner, a car appeared. It was black and white and had the logo of the Waterfield PD on the door.

  “Here we go,” Derek said.

  “Did you call them? Him?” I recognized Wayne’s profile as the cruiser pulled up to the curb.

  Derek shook his head. “Great minds, I guess. I figured it was just a matter of time before he got here. If Irina isn’t answering her phone, this is the logical place to start.”

  I nodded. Wayne had gotten out of the car and was scowling. I braced myself.

  12

  “That went rather well, I thought,” Derek said judiciously thirty minutes later, after Wayne had finished chewing both of us out for interfering with his investigation. Never mind the fact that we hadn’t done anything wrong, and if it hadn’t been for us talking to Arthur, and Arthur saying that Irina had gone camping, we’d have no idea what had happened to her. Wayne was still upset that we’d beaten him here.

  “I thought you were headed for Rowanberry Island!”

  “We changed our minds,” I said.

  “Avery was worried about Irina,” Derek added, throwing me to the wolves. I shot him a betrayed glance. He shrugged, and not apologetically.

  “And so she should be,” Wayne snarled. “You realize how this looks, don’t you?”

  I made a face. Of course we did: like Irina had met with Lori Trent, had been spooked by something the ICE agent had said or done, and had bashed her over the head with something—like the missing pysanka. And then she had dumped it, and the body, in the water in the harbor.

  Except . . . the backpack may have been big, but was it big enough to hide the body? Probably not. Or—if they’d met near the harbor, as Derek had suggested—why would Irina be carrying the paperweight? Unless she had brought it specifically to bash in the head of Agent Trent. But that would make it premeditated murder....

  “Yes, Wayne,” Derek said, watching the thoughts chase each other across my face, “we realize exactly how it looks. Unfortunately.”

  Wayne snarled something before turning to Arthur. “We have to talk.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “What about us?” I asked, a little diffidently.

  Wayne scowled at me. “You two can go. I know where to find you. And no more interfering with my investigation!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  Wayne growled and waved us away, as if we were annoying midges buzzing around his head.

  And that was what prompted Derek’s remark when we were back in the truck and on our way back to Waterfield proper.

  “You mean, because he didn’t arrest us for impeding his investigation?”

  “We’re not impeding his investigation. It’s not like we held anything back.”

  “There was nothing to hold back,” I pointed out.

  “That, too. But we wouldn’t have held anything back even if we’d learned something interesting.”

  I didn’t answer. “I don’t think he wants us to keep looking for Irina, though. Did you get that impression?”

  Derek glanced at me. “Are you thinking of looking for Irina? Because I’m not sure I want you to do that, either.”

  “Why not? You don’t really think she killed Lori Trent, do you?”

  Derek didn’t respond. My voice rose and became shrill.

  “Are you crazy? Can you imagine Irina bashing someone over the head with a paperweight and pushing them into the harbor? Irina!”

  “Paperweight?” Derek repeated, without actually answering my questions.

  I squirmed. “She had this big, egg-shaped paperweight in her living room the other day, when I was there with Wayne. A pysanka. Ukrainian Easter egg. Painted in bright colors. I picked it up, and it weighted a ton.”

  “Really?” Derek said.

  I nodded. “I looked for it through the living room window earlier, but I couldn’t see it. Wayne will probably go inside, don’t you think? And see if it’s still there?”

  “I’m sure he will,” Derek said. “Do you want me to call and remind him?”

  I shook my head. “He was there the other day, too. We talked about it. The pysanka. He’ll remember.” And if he didn’t, and it wasn’t there, it wasn’t my job to remind him.

  “Right,” Derek said, but he didn’t say anything else. He knows me well, though, so I’m sure he knew what I was thinking.

  “So what now?” he asked instead.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Almost lunch-time. I guess we should find some food and something useful to do for the rest of the day.”

  “Want to run up to Boothbay Harbor and see what Ian has come up with for us?”

  “Your friend at the salvage store?”

  Derek nodded. “I called him a couple of days ago and told him to gather doorknobs and old fireplace tiles and anything else he has that might be Colonial or Federal.”

  “You think he’s had time to put anything together?”

  “He’d better,” Derek said, turni
ng the truck onto the ocean road. “He knows every piece of junk in the place, so I don’t see why he won’t have. And there’s a little clam shack up that way where we can have lunch, too.” He took his hands off the wheel for a second to rub them together in anticipation.

  “With Ian?”

  Hands back on the wheel now, Derek glanced over at me. “If he wants to. Though I don’t think he will.”

  “Why not? Can’t he leave the business in the middle of the day?”

  “That’s part of it. It’s just him since his dad retired, so he usually eats his meals at the counter and sleeps under it. Good man, knows a lot about a lot of things. But he isn’t real comfortable around women.”

  “How come?”

  “No idea. We’ve never talked about it. But I took Melissa up to the salvage yard once, and it wasn’t pretty.”

  “What happened?”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “You know what she’s like.”

  I did, indeed. Gorgeous, elegant, confident, and condescending. I couldn’t imagine she’d have enjoyed waiting while her husband crawled around a dirty, dusty junkyard full of other people’s castoffs. Especially since she’d thought she’d be married to a doctor and not a glorified handyman. “She probably wasn’t very nice, was she?”

  “No,” Derek said, “she wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong; Ian’s a nice guy. But you should probably just ignore him. Pretend he isn’t there unless he talks to you.”

  “I can do that,” I said, and sat back to enjoy the drive and the occasional glimpses of the waters of the Atlantic through the window. After almost a year in Maine, I still hadn’t gotten tired of looking at the ocean.

  Boothbay Harbor is about the same distance from Waterfield as Portland, but in the other direction, up the ocean road to the northeast. We got there a little before one and stopped for lunch at the clam shack Derek had mentioned, where the food was every bit as good as he’d intimated. By the time we got to Ian’s place, on the north side of town, it was closer to two.

  Boothbay Harbor is another gorgeous little Maine town. Like Waterfield, it started life as a shipbuilding and fishing village, and those industries are still alive and well, but during the tourist season, tourism trumps everything. At the moment, it was still too early in the year for many out-of-towners, and the streets were mostly quiet, while many of the tourist traps were closed for the winter.

  “What do these people do all winter?” I asked Derek as we passed another little souvenir shop with a sign in the window: Back at Half Past April.

  Derek grinned, reading it. “Snowbirds,” he said, “most likely. Folks who spend the summers working around the clock, and who take the winters off and go to warmer climates.”

  “Florida?” Like Gert Heyerdahl and Arthur Mattson’s friend Lon Wilson and Derek’s paw-paw Willie.

  He nodded. “Mostly Florida. Although some go to Arizona or Alabama or Texas, too.”

  “Do they all go away? Everyone whose store is closed?” If so, the permanent population of this place must halve in the winter.

  He shook his head. “Some just close up shop and do other things. Sometimes the tourism businesses are sidelines, and they have other jobs as well. Sometimes they take temporary jobs over the winter to keep money coming in until they can open the business again. Some make enough during the season that they just sit back and wait it out.”

  I nodded. “Is that Ian’s place?”

  It looked like a junkyard: a big, ramshackle, shedlike building with a smaller building next to it; the smaller building actually had both walls, windows, and a door, as opposed to the bigger structure, which had a wall in the front and the back, but nothing on the sides. The whole thing was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond the chain link, I could see an ocean of toilets, sinks, and old-fashioned claw-footed and pedestal bathtubs. Under the roof of the shed were stacks and rows of windows and doors, sidelights and shutters, with light fixtures suspended from the ceiling beams above. The sign on the front said Burns Salvage.

  Derek nodded. “This is it. Ian’s last name is Burns.”

  His eyes had turned soft and dreamy, the way they always do when he sees something appealing. And I’m not talking about when he’s looking at me. No, this is the look Derek reserves for architectural elements that get his blood pumping. The first time I saw it, he was looking at my aunt Inga’s kitchen, with its peeling linoleum floor, rusty half-circular wall sink, and driftwood cabinets. I’ve seen it many times since, in every house we’ve ever renovated. Now I saw it again, as Derek took in the many possibilities inherent in the cast-off bathroom fixtures, old wooden doors, and many-paned windows stretched out before him.

  “Are you ready?” I nudged him.

  His eyes came back in focus and he grinned. “Sure.”

  “Then let’s go. You can turn the place upside down after we see what Ian has found for us.”

  Derek nodded, and I could see that he did, indeed, plan to do just that.

  He held the door into the office open for me. I passed through first and looked around.

  The space was small and old. The walls were paneled—not nicely paneled, like our Colonial, but paneled in ugly 1970s sheet paneling, speckled green—and there was an old counter taking up most of the room, with two ratty office chairs up against the wall under the window. They were orange and dirty, and the stuffing was coming out in places where years of wear had worn away the fabric. Behind the counter hung a dog-eared calendar with pictures of lighthouses, and a notice saying, “I can only please one person per day. Today is not your day. Tomorrow doesn’t look good, either.” I wondered whether this was Ian’s philosophy or whether it was a joke. It could be taken either way, I thought.

  The man behind the counter, reading a copy of Hunting & Fishing, must be Ian.

  Now, Derek is no shrimp, height-wise or in any other way. He’s six feet tall, give or take an inch, and there’s nothing wrong with the rest of him, either. A guy doesn’t haul lumber and heavy tools around all day and fail to build some muscle. But next to Ian, he looked downright puny.

  Ian looked like Paul Bunyan, in a black and red checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. And his lower arms were as big around as my thighs, furry with dark hair. He had shoulder-length, black hair, a big beard, ruddy cheeks—what I could see of them behind the growth—and different-colored eyes under bushy brows. One bright blue, one hazel, like an Australian shepherd. Although it was hard to tell with all the hair, I placed him at a few years older than Derek; maybe forty, maybe a year or two over or under. He blushed when he saw me, but the beard split in a grin when he spied Derek behind me.

  “Hey, man!” His voice was raspy, as if he had a pack-a-day habit, or laryngitis. The smile made him look younger. Getting up made him look bigger; he towered over me as he leaned across the counter to clasp Derek’s hand. If he didn’t exactly tower over Derek, it was a near thing. Ian must stand almost seven feet tall, and correspondingly broad.

  I stood politely aside as the two of them exchanged pleasantries. Eventually, Derek turned to introduce me. “This is Avery. We’re in business together.” The look he gave me was a reminder to be nice to poor, delicate Ian. I made a face.

  Ian’s dual-colored eyes wandered over me. “Just business?”

  Derek shrugged, smiling. Ian smiled, too. He didn’t offer to shake my hand. I didn’t mind. He looked like he could break a few of my bones without even trying.

  “I like her better than the other one,” Ian said. I wasn’t sure that I liked being talked about like I wasn’t here and couldn’t hear every word they said, but on the other hand, he liked me better than Melissa, so that had to be a good thing.

  “I do, too.” Derek winked at me.

  Ian grinned. “I got something to show you, too.” He turned away, then bellowed, loud enough that I was worried the windows would break, “Angie!”

  “Angie?” Derek repeated, giving his head a shake. He was probably try
ing to stop his ears from ringing. I know mine were.

  Ian nodded. “Just wait.”

  We waited. After a minute, a door opened somewhere, and we heard light footsteps in the back room, somewhere behind the office. A figure appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”

  Derek straightened up. I blinked. And Ian’s beard broke open in a beaming, adoring smile.

  The woman in the doorway couldn’t be much over twenty. She was only a fraction of an inch taller than me, and slender. Everywhere except for the stomach, which looked like she had swallowed a basketball. She was wearing a pair of black leggings and a long-sleeved, pink T-shirt with black lettering, like those signs you see in station wagon windows: Baby on Board. The “sign” was positioned directly on the belly. Her hair was soft and brown, curling around her ears. Her eyes were huge and melting brown, like chocolate, and surrounded by gorgeous, long, curving lashes.

  “This,” Ian said, walking to her and wrapping a meaty arm around her slight body; her head didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder, “is Angela. My wife.”

  A beat of silence followed, while we stood there speechless. Then I pulled myself together. “Congratulations.”

  I elbowed Derek, who was still gaping. He closed his mouth and opened it again. “Guess it’s been longer than I realized since I was up here.”

  “We met just before Christmas,” Ian explained, gazing fondly down—way down—on his wife.

  Derek finally got it together. He turned on the charm and took a couple of steps forward, holding his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Angie. Congratulations.”

  When Derek comes toward them, smiling, most women smile back. Angie shrank into Ian’s side while her eyes got even bigger.

  “It’s OK,” Ian rasped. “This is Derek Ellis. He’s been coming here for years, buying stuff.”

  Angie nodded, a jerky little movement of her head. She still didn’t look comfortable, but she extended a small hand and shook, forcing a smile.

  “This is my girlfriend, Avery.” Derek put his arm around me and pulled me forward.