Murder at Pirate's Cove

by Josh Lanyon

  Ellery wasn’t sure if Maples was asking why would anyone kill Trevor—which by now felt like a rhetorical question—or if he was asking why Trevor had been killed in such a bizarre manner. The second question was the one that haunted Ellery. He kept a diplomatic silence.

  Finally, Maples surreptitiously rubbed his knuckles against his nose and faced Ellery. “Thank you for allowing me this moment.”

  “Of course,” Ellery replied. “I’m afraid I didn’t know your brother well. I didn’t even realize he had a brother. Let alone a twin.”

  “We aren’t—weren’t—twins. I’m two years older than Trevor.” Logan’s dark eyes fastened on Ellery’s. “It’s only fair to tell you that if you did have anything to do with my brother’s death, I’ll make it my mission to see you spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  “I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but I’m sure I’d feel the same way,” Ellery said.

  They walked toward the entrance. Ellery held the door for Maples. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No.” Maples stepped outside and turned to give him an icy smile. “If local gossip is to be believed, you’ve done enough already.”

  He did the drive home on autopilot.

  By nature, Ellery was optimistic and confident, but he’d be lying if he tried to pretend that the last few days hadn’t knocked the stuffing out of him. Every day seemed to bring some new and worse disaster—as if being suspected of killing someone wasn’t bad enough. Where would it stop? With him bankrupt? With him incarcerated? With him dead too?

  At this point, nothing seemed impossible. Or at least, nothing bad seemed impossible. The good things were what seemed to be in scarce supply in his life.

  Maybe he should cut his losses and go back to New York?

  Sell the bookshop to Janet, auction off the contents of Captain’s Seat—the Museum of Ugly Art would probably jump at the chance to add some of those pieces to its collection—let Tommy Rider turn Captain’s Seat into condominiums.

  A guy could only take so much, and Ellery was reaching his breaking point.

  Nobody in Pirate’s Cove would shed a tear if he left, that was for sure.

  And yet it went against the grain to simply give up.

  He had never met his great-great-great-aunt Eudora. Frankly, she sounded like a little bit of a nut, but she had wanted him—the last surviving Page—to carry on whatever was left of their family heritage. Until he had inherited Captain’s Seat and the bookshop, he’d had no idea he even had a family heritage. Heck, he hadn’t known he had a great-great-great-aunt Eudora.

  Well, the family heritage was Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s thing, not his. He wasn’t obliged to take on the burden of a past he’d probably disapprove of anyway. And yet, the fact that it had meant so much to her, that she’d considered pulling up stakes a couple of times but had always resisted, had hung on until the very end—and then passed that faint, flickering torch to him—it meant something.

  Or maybe he just wanted, needed, it to mean something.

  The truth was, he’d been directionless for the past few years. Oh, he’d worked hard at different things and he’d saved up, but he had never been sure what he was working toward or what he was saving for. And then things with Todd had fallen apart, and he’d felt…adrift. Like what was the point of any of it? Not in a dramatic long-walk-off-a-short-pier kind of way, but more like cue Peggy Whatsherface Is That All There Is?

  And then Mr. Landry had phoned to tell him about Pirate’s Cove and Captain’s Seat and the Crow’s Nest, and it had seemed like a nudge from the cosmos. Like maybe this was what he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

  But if this was what he’d been waiting for, he must have done something very bad in a previous life.

  He had planned on painting the dining room that evening, but by the time he reached home—okay, not home, Captain’s Seat—he found he had no enthusiasm for renovations. Instead, he poured himself a glass of wine and sat down at the dining-room table to play his version of Solitaire Scrabble.

  He had the SCRABBLE Slam! card game, and different phone apps, of course, as well as a couple of electronic programs for his laptop, but his favorite method was to use a regular board, tiles, and a timer, and simply play against himself. He found it soothing.

  Not just soothing. A way to analyze and work through his problems without consciously trying to do that very thing. The words that popped up during this particular mental exercise were always interesting. Sometimes even uncanny. So he was hoping for similar results that evening.

  After everything he’d been through over the past few days, he wouldn’t have been surprised with Ouija-board-like results, and at first it did seem like his unconscious was pulling at the threads of his anxieties. He got PIRATES (nine points) and then NUANCES (nine points) right off the bat, with an additional one hundred points for twice in a row using all his tiles. Then a lot of, well, scrabbling before he finally he got QUIXOTIC (seventy-six points!).

  He began to feel calmer. The wine probably helped. He could not claim that his thinking was much clearer, but he did manage to get a little perspective.

  Yes, some people thought he was capable of murder, but Jack Carson didn’t seem to be one of them. Not that Jack—Chief Carson—had come right out and said so, but he had said he didn’t think Ellery had committed this murder. Small victories.

  That was very sad about his wife. About the childhood-sweethearts thing. It was very confusing too, because Ellery would have almost bet money that Chief Carson’s default was not heterosexual. Granted, sexuality was complex. One size did not fit all.

  He was getting up to pour himself a third glass, when he stepped on the hard plastic wiffle ball he had used to play with the puppy that morning, and nearly fell.

  He managed to save himself by grabbing the sideboard. The mahogany cabinet was too big to move, but he jarred the pewter candelabra at the far end. The candelabra rocked and then fell with a huge crash. Ellery went to retrieve it. He was thinking how heavy it was—and that it would make a good murder weapon—when he noticed there was something odd about the wall. He set the candelabra down and peered more closely.

  He wasn’t imagining it: there seemed to be a narrow gap in the dark paneling.

  Rain damage? Rotting wood? But no. As he looked more closely, he realized it was an opening.

  An opening indicating a doorway?

  An opening indicating a space behind the wall?

  “A secret passage?” He laughed in disbelief.

  But really, if ever a house was perfect for a secret passage, it would be Captain’s Seat.

  He felt around for a latch or a button, but there was nothing. Then it occurred to him to press against the panel itself, and sure enough, the board sprang forward, revealing a doorway—and a secret passage beyond.

  Or at least, he was hoping for a secret passage. It was too dark to be sure what he was looking at. He thought he caught the very faint whiff of plastic and mothballs.

  He hurried into the kitchen, retrieved one of the flashlights he’d replaced batteries in after his trip to the hardware store, and returned to the dining room. He shone the flashlight into the doorway and saw that it was not a secret passage after all.

  Nor even a secret room.

  It was a closet.

  A neatly concealed but perfectly ordinary coat closet.

  Wha-wha-wha. Cue the Fail Trumpet.

  A tweed walking hat sat on a very dusty shelf. A couple of outdated raincoats hung limply from a wooden bar. A pair of galoshes faced the back corner as though in trouble for splashing through the mud still caked on their soles.

  In the very back were two cardboard boxes that turned out to be stuffed with old magazines.

  Those would probably be entertaining to look through. Depending on what condition they were in, he might even consider selling them at the Crow’s Nest. But sorting through the delights of moldering, mildewed magazines would have to wait for anoth
er night. Ellery was finally tired enough to try sleeping.

  As he shoved the boxes of magazines against the wall of the dining room, he heard a scraping sound inside the closet, and then a metal chime as something banged down on the wooden floor.

  Something had been wedged behind the boxes, and with their removal, had fallen free. He turned the flashlight back on, directing its beam into the black interior.

  He thought for a moment he was looking at some kind of cane or walking stick. Then he saw the etching and realized he was looking at a blade. A blade he had seen before. A blade now stained with a reddish-brown substance that raised the hair on his head.

  He sank down to the floor, telling himself he needed to get a better look, but in fact, his knees had given out. He crawled forward, and the beam of the flashlight wavered like moth wings because his hand was shaking.

  A sword. A cutlass. The very one that had once hung above the door at the Crow’s Nest. The very one used to murder Trevor Maples.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ellery’s breath caught in his throat. He backed out of the closet as hastily as if he’d discovered a body.

  In a way, he had.

  How the… This was impossible. How did it get there? Wrong question. Who could have put it there? Someone with access to Captain’s Seat. Someone who knew about the hidden closet. Someone who definitely had it in for him, definitely wanted to see him take the blame for Trevor’s murder.

  His mind was spinning—with about the same results as tires stuck in mud.

  This looked bad. This was bad. So bad. The murder weapon discovered in his home, in his closet—his hidden closet? His heart pounded with sick certainty. He could visualize the story in the Scuttlebutt Weekly. He would be arrested. Of course he would be arrested. He would arrest himself at this point!

  What should he do? What could he do?

  Strangely enough, the first idea that came to him was to phone Chief Carson.

  He rejected that thought almost instantly.

  Even if Carson believed him, believed that someone was trying to frame him, he wouldn’t have any choice but to arrest Ellery. He had already admitted he had to follow the evidence wherever it led.

  No, Ellery would have to get rid of the sword. Hide it somewhere it would never be found. Or at least hide it somewhere where it couldn’t incriminate him.

  Where?

  Think.

  He could throw it into the ocean. He could bury it in the woods. He could bury it in a meadow. He could hide it in one of the falling-down barns or cowsheds outside the village. He could take it back to the Crow’s Nest. The police would never search the shop a second time. What did it matter where, so long as he got it off his property?

  His panicked thoughts raced from possibility to possibility.

  And then, thankfully, reason asserted itself.

  Someone had deliberately planted this sword in his house to implicate him in Trevor’s murder. It was unlikely that, having taken that risk, this unknown person’s plan stopped there. They couldn’t know when or even if Ellery would stumble upon the sword, so there had to be another phase to this plan. Like an anonymous phone call to the police?

  Counterintuitive though it might feel, his best defense was to contact the police first, himself. That was what an innocent person would do, and he was an innocent person. Therefore, as much as he dreaded the idea, he needed to call Chief Carson and report this—and the sooner, the better. If he didn’t, it would only make him look guiltier.

  Thank God his sense of self-preservation had kicked in to stop him from touching or moving the sword.

  Ellery rifled through the contents of his wallet, found Carson’s card, and phoned his direct line at the police department.

  This time there was no reply, so it appeared even Carson had to occasionally go home to sleep.

  Ellery tried the next number on the card. The phone on the other end rang twice, and then someone picked up.

  “Carson.” The voice was thick and gravelly.

  Ellery glanced at the clock and was startled to realize it was after one in the morning.

  “Chief, I’m sorry to wake you, but something just happened.” He added, “Sorry. I should have said. It’s me, Ellery Page.”

  “I know it’s you, Ellery.” Carson sounded like someone trying to hold on to their patience. “What’s happened now?”

  “I just found the murder weapon.”

  “You…” He could practically see Carson blinking, but to alertness. “Did you say—”

  “There’s a hidden closet in the dining room. The sword was in there.”

  He heard what sounded like the rustle of bedclothes. Carson said in a completely wide-awake voice, “I’m on my way. Don’t touch anything.”

  He hung up.

  Ellery must have covered several miles, pacing up and down the long entry hall, before the front door suddenly jumped beneath a hard fist.

  Carson’s voice sounded muted behind the thick planks. “Ellery? It’s Chief Carson.”

  Ellery leaped to open the door.

  He was expecting several police cars and the state CSI team, so it was a surprise to see only Carson, hair ruffled, chin stubbled, wearing jeans and a heavy sheepskin coat. Ellery peered past him.

  “You came alone?”

  “Yes.” Carson’s face was grim. “Show me where you found the sword.”

  Ellery led the way to the dining room and stood aside as Carson pulled on his gloves and leaned into the closet to have a look.

  “It looks like blood on the blade.” Ellery felt sick, remembering.

  Carson was silent for what seemed like a long time.

  When he ducked out again, his expression was not encouraging.

  Ellery rushed in before Carson could speak. “I know how this looks, but I swear to you, I didn’t even know this closet existed until about an hour ago. Someone is trying to frame me.”

  It sounded ridiculous, but what other explanation could there be? Not that he expected Carson to believe him.

  “Even if I had killed Trevor—and why would I? I had nothing to gain from his death, no motive—why would I go out of my way to do all these things that make me look guilty? Why would I kill him in my own shop? Why would I use my own sword? Why would I hide the sword where it would further incriminate me? None of this makes sense, and I understand you have to follow the evidence, but I also know you don’t think any of this makes sense either. You can’t.”

  “I agree.”

  Ellery, getting his breath and preparing to follow up his line of argument, fell silent. He said slowly, “You…agree?”

  Carson said crisply, “Yes. I agree. None of this makes sense. You’re being set up.”

  “You see it too?” Ellery felt almost weak with relief. “You believe me?”

  Carson’s mouth curved sardonically. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Well, frankly, yes. The evidence against me keeps mounting.”

  “Conveniently, that evidence is solely circumstantial. You’re perfectly right about your lack of motive. Not that motive is always crucial, but in this case—and given your background—we need something more to explain why you’d suddenly decide to kill Maples. Especially in such an impractical and overly complicated way.”

  “Given my background?” Ellery echoed.

  “Correct. I did tell you we’d be investigating you.”

  Yes, Carson had said something about a background check. Ellery had been thinking work history and credit report, but maybe it had been more extensive.

  Carson was saying, “There’s nothing in your history that indicates any tendency toward violent or criminal behavior. Even your ex-boyfriend says you’re a nice enough guy.”

  Nice enough guy? High praise indeed!

  Ellery sputtered, “You sp-p-poke to Todd?”

  Carson shrugged. “That’s how it works. We spoke to your employers, your friends, your neighbors, your agent, and your ex. You don’t have a criminal record—unl
ess we want to count an ungodly number of parking tickets—and we checked your credit and employment history, your—”

  “You talked to my agent?”

  “That actually worked to your benefit because according to Ms. Samuelson, you’re a phenomenally terrible actor.”

  Ellery’s jaw dropped.

  “I’ll be honest,” Carson said. “The fact that you were an actor did initially bias me, but I’ve seen for myself that you’re a very bad liar.”

  “Well!” Ellery huffed. He was offended but, of course, also relieved.

  “In short, despite the wealth of circumstantial evidence, I can’t come up with a believable theory as to why you’d suddenly murder a man you barely knew. Even early on, the very fact that there was so much circumstantial evidence seemed suspicious. Homicide investigations aren’t usually solved so easily. Finding the sword here, thrown in the back of a closet, is the final straw.”

  “Why is someone doing this to me?” Ellery whispered.

  Carson didn’t answer for a second or two. Then he said, “I’d like to be able to reassure you that you just happen to be a convenient scapegoat, but it does seem more personal than that.”

  “It feels more personal.”

  “Can you think of anyone in Pirate’s Cove who might have a grudge against you?”

  “No. I’d never met any of these people—never knew they even existed—until I moved here.”

  “Anyone you’ve had a run-in with? Has anyone exhibited hostile or aggressive behavior toward you?”

  “You mean besides Sue Lewis?”

  Carson looked pained. “I think Sue’s real grudge is against the police department.”

  Ellery remembered Nora’s shared insight into Sue’s motivations and held his tongue.

  “Trevor and I argued about the bookshop, but that wasn’t personal.”

  “It wouldn’t seem so on the surface,” agreed Carson.

  “Could this have something to do with the Crow’s Nest? Trevor wanted to buy me out. Now Janet Maples has offered to buy the bookshop.” He half joked, “Maybe the store’s sitting on buried treasure.”