On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3)

by Jackson, Melanie

  “So, he went to the mainland?”

  Barney barked agreement, causing ghostly musical echoes in the old piano.

  “Let’s look at a map.”

  * * *

  Maine actually has more miles of coastline than California, a dismaying fact that soon became apparent when I mapped out my search grid. Most of it is quite beautiful and absolutely encrusted with little tourist towns where someone might well hide.

  I decided to begin my enquiries at the nearest village, which had a large pier, a maritime museum, and a foghorn so loud it knocked seagulls out of the air. I would start my search on Tuesday.

  The town, which I prefer not to name, also houses our family cemetery, though that wasn’t on my to-do list for the day. Eventually I needed to visit, but I didn’t see how looking at the grave would help me in my quest to find Kelvin’s hideaway.

  I disembarked the ferry and was met with a large sign warning me to avoid the accidental spread of eastern dwarf mistletoe. I hadn’t planned on picking up any parasitic invaders but I made note of the plant’s general outlines before hurrying for the nearest coffee shop in the hope of getting both hot coffee and perhaps a lead.

  The slouching wharf seemed to catch the wind and still it when it met up with the sheds, making the salt smell more concentrated than it was on the ferry, and I found it oddly unpleasant.

  The snow, mostly melted, left the empty wooden buildings looking dull and dreary. The whole town felt rather defeated. In summer, when there were flowers in the window boxes and some fresh whitewash was applied to the almost naked fences and railing, things would be more cheerful. I tried to keep that image in mind and not feel depressed and lethargic.

  Barney was spending the day with Ben, sleeping by my neighbor’s warm fire, which was a whole lot nicer than where I was and I had a small pang of envy for the pair. The coffee shop was a typical greasy spoon with a plastic-encased menu, sticky with ketchup and lard which I’d prefer to avoid, but where there was usually good pie and coffee.

  Wilbur—if the mustard-smudged name tag was correct—was working behind the counter, if working could be construed to involve reading the local paper and slurping noisily at a mug of tea. I didn’t complain about the slow service and smiled nicely when I placed my order. Nor did I rush right in with a bunch of questions, but rather waited until he had put the paper away and finally took note of me as something other than a body on a stool.

  Since I was waiting for it, I saw the moment that he figured out who I was. We were alone in the shop or I think he might have hurried away to wait on other tables.

  “So,” I said, opting for bluntness. “I don’t suppose that you’ve seen Kelvin lately.”

  His eyes went wide and his mouth snapped shut and, as expected, I was met with the reflexive stubbornness shown to all outsiders. Tupperware didn’t seal up as tight as some of these inbred communities. But there was residual respect and fear for the Wendover name even on the mainland so I waited silently, forcing him to make some sort of reply.

  “Kelvin didn’t come here much. Usually he went straight to the bookstore,” Wilbur said at last.

  I nodded, wishing to appear informed of my great-grandfather’s habits. It was a small town so there was probably only one. And the bookstore made sense. My great-grandfather had been a book collector.

  When it was clear that Wilbur had nothing else to offer, I paid for my pie and left a generous but not preposterous tip. I didn’t ask for directions since it would ruin my family’s reputation for omniscience. There was really only one main street in town and it seemed to be where the businesses were located. The bookstore was about half a block up and easy to spot because it had a large hanging sign that said BOOKS.

  The building was old, mostly Victorian in style, and leaning just enough to the west to shift the narrow, display-cluttered windows and door into obvious parallelograms that had probably leaked badly until someone without much experience had caulked them. On the north corner the Wedgwood blue paint was peeling away from a pitted cornice and revealing that the store had at one time been painted barn red.

  Snow had melted off the roof enough to reveal the skeletons of thorny weeds grown last summer in the porch gutter. The tenant, and perhaps owner, was obviously more passionate about books than home maintenance. Looking around, that seemed typical of the town.

  There was also something that looked a lot like a hex sign over the door mantel and I wondered if he also was “from away.”

  The posted hours on the small plaque on the slender door were from ten until four so I took the sign at its word and tried the tarnished brass knob. The door opened with a jangling of sleigh bells that would summon even the hard of hearing from anywhere in the three-story building, though no one immediately appeared.

  “Hello?” I called, staying a moment on the dirty doormat so that any water on my boots would drain off before I ventured inside.

  The wood of the floors and walls had warped and darkened from its younger days, and smoke from the central fireplace had done its worst and turned the ceiling into a dark canopy near the chimney. Though the shelves were dust free, I noticed cobwebs hiding in the corners of the main room. The books were loved, but not the house.

  It was an enjoyable place for all its being somewhat unkempt, especially with a fire in the grate and a large orange cat curled up in a Morris chair near the fireplace. My nose began to run as it often does when I come in out of the cold and I sniffed in annoyance as I hunted up a tissue.

  I like bookstores and libraries, but I also have come to feel the weight of accumulated knowledge and opinion in places where old books gather. Books are compressed thoughts and some of those ideas are still dangerous. There didn’t seem to be many frivolous titles to lighten the gloom either. No romance, no thrillers, little fiction of any kind, at least on the first floor. Maybe all the Barbara Cartland paperbacks were upstairs.

  “Hullo,” a quiet, accentless voice said and I turned to look at a man who was the embodiment of Ichabod Crane had Ichabod worn blue, rubber-soled shoes.

  We studied each other for a moment and then he said, “I’m Percival Henry. You must be Kelvin’s granddaughter.”

  As I have mentioned, the family features breed true and are quite identifiable.

  “Great-granddaughter,” I clarified. “And please call me Tess.”

  “I’m so glad that you’ve come,” Percival said. “Kelvin assured me that you eventually would, but I had begun to worry that you wouldn’t make it after all.”

  I tried not to stare. Kelvin had known I was coming? He had known he had a great-granddaughter? Or was he talking about my mother? Had he known that his daughter was pregnant when she left the island and assumed my mother still lived? My heart began to thud.

  “When did—when did you last see Kelvin?” I asked.

  “Let’s see. It wouldn’t have been in the early spring. It was the week before.…” Percival trailed off.

  The orange cat stirred and poured himself off the chair. He sauntered over to rub himself on my slacks and then slouch off somewhere, perhaps the kitchen.

  “The week before he disappeared,” I finished for him.

  “Yes,” Ichabod sounded relieved. “He was with his lawyer and stopped in for a visit while Harris was seeing a client.”

  “And that’s when he asked you to give me something?”

  “Yes. He had been on the lookout for a rare first edition of collected letters—local history and a lot of nonsense about regional legends and boogiemen.” Ichabod colored. His pale skin mottled unattractively and turned so violent a shade that I thought it must hurt. “I—I glanced at the book when it arrived. Making sure it was in good condition.”

  More likely he had read it cover to cover. Being a true bibliophile he probably couldn’t help himself.

  “Kelvin collected a lot of local history books,” I said calmly though I very much wanted to read this book about local legends and boogiemen. “Did Kelvin actually see the book
that day, or did he just know that it was coming?”

  “He saw it. But it is rather large and he said that he and Harris weren’t going straight back to the island and could I keep it here—and that if he didn’t come to get it the next week, his granddaughter would. He didn’t want me to send it to the island like I usually do.”

  “Granddaughter?” I asked. “Or great-granddaughter?”

  “Um…. I don’t really recall.”

  That was a shame. Because it would have indeed been a curious fact had he known about me even before Harris did.

  “May I see it?” I asked.

  Ichabod gulped and hurried for a large desk. The drawers squeaked as he opened them. Usually I don’t make snap judgments about people but I had the feeling that this man was vulnerable and frightened. He looked fine on the outside, but was bruised deep down at the core. I wondered fleetingly what had happened to him. I had been a newspaper woman most of my adult life and the curiosity hadn’t gone away just because I sold the newspaper and moved to a private island.

  “Yes. It’s here somewhere. I—ah! Here we go.” He pulled out a ridiculously large tome wrapped in yellowed linen. His long fingers were gentle as he unwrapped the parcel.

  The book was bound not in leather but in much rubbed velvet that was now a purplish-brown but had probably started off blue. Some of the photo albums in the attic had similar bindings. He turned the tome carefully so it faced me and let me do the honor of opening it.

  As expected, the ink was old and faded—all the local books I had read from this era were in equally eye-straining condition and I had come to expect it, though not enjoy it. Not all books from the eighteenth century are in such bad circumstances and I had to wonder if the problem was with the ink that had been used in the region.

  I made no attempt to read beyond the first page which had a date of December 17, 1796 at the top.

  “The cover isn’t original. The first binding is under the velvet. It’s some kind of eel skin maybe. But it’s badly shattered. I don’t think this book was created by a professional bookbinder.”

  Percival had really checked the book over. I would need to do the same.

  “What do I owe you for the volume?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Kelvin already paid for it.” He reached out hesitantly and I knew that he didn’t want to part with the book. “Let me wrap that for you. We wouldn’t want it getting wet on the way home.”

  “Thank you,” I said and watched as he lovingly swaddled the book back in its aged linen and then wrapped it in waxed butcher paper which he tied with twine until it looked like the world’s largest pack of pork chops.

  I waited until he was done and then asked the question that was foremost on my mind.

  “So, you haven’t heard from Kelvin since then, have you?” Percival looked blank. “Or from anyone else in my family?”

  “Uh—no. I wasn’t aware that there was anyone else in your family.” But he colored again, a telltale stain that probably meant he was lying or embarrassed. Or maybe both. “In any event, I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

  I nodded, smiling and accepting the package. I took a shot in the dark.

  “There is rumor that I have cousins scattered here and there. It would be nice to meet them,” I added. But this only made Ichabod look frightened. “Well, thank you again for keeping the book safe for me. It means a lot that Kelvin set it aside especially.”

  “You’re welcome.” Percival swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing so violently that he looked like a pelican swallowing a large fish. “I hope you’ll stop in again.”

  “I will. Like my great-grandfather, I am very fond of books.” I reached out for the package which he surrendered with visible reluctance. “Please contact me if anything else of interest should come your way.”

  I didn’t specify what I might be interested in.

  “I will.”

  “Goodbye,” I said and then pulled open the front door. Bells jangled harshly.

  “Goodbye,” he managed, along with an insincere smile.

  That was one unhappy and possibly frightened man. I couldn’t tell why though. Was it because I had mentioned that there could be more Wendovers about? Or did it have something to do with the book?

  I sighed. I could see long nights ahead of me squinting my way through yet another poorly written tome.

  Chapter 2

  Bryson was waiting when I came out of the bookshop. I wasn’t entirely surprised to see him, but I did feel a tiny bit of annoyance. It’s the downside of being the most notorious fish in a very small pond.

  He read my expression accurately and said with a touch of amusement, “Harris heard you were in town and asked me to pick you up.”

  I raised an eyebrow and awaited an explanation.

  “The exhumation order came through and he thought you might want to be present when we open the tomb. Do you want to be present?” This time his eyebrow went up.

  It was come to Jesus time. Did I want to be there when they opened Kelvin’s tomb? Actually, yes, I did. I felt a little ill and my palms were sweating, but I needed to be there.

  “Of course. Lead on, Macduff.”

  “Let me help you with that package. It looks heavy.”

  Though my first impulse was to resist, I handed the book over like it meant nothing.

  The road to the old cemetery starts out paved but soon turns to gravel. The headstones are mostly old, belonging to families that have died out. The mausoleums are set back in a copse of wind-bent cedars. Winters are hard on the coast and all but the newest of headstones looked worn out. There were no park benches, no winding paths lined with daffodils and hyacinths. Comforts of the flesh were a mortal sin. Everything was straight and narrow like the gates to heaven.

  “Bleak, isn’t it?” Bryson said.

  “Very.”

  I saw no recent evidence of people mourning—no flowers, no willow, no offerings on any grave, not even leftover evergreens from Christmas. Some places thrived on neglect. This wasn’t one of them.

  Did no one come here anymore?

  There were no angels or saints standing guard in the cemetery either. Only plain gray stones with hard, factual words about the dead. Did people find more comfort in statistics than angels and saints? I guess our ancestors were closer to death than we are and didn’t glamorize it the way the Victorians did. They knew that life was transient, death was enduring, and you needed to prepare for it with fear of God in your heart instead of sentimental whimsy. It would make for bleak Memorial Day visits though.

  Frankly, I had to wonder how the Wendovers had gotten into this cemetery, being known sinners. But then Little Goose and the surrounding islands are detached from the reality that most people know and understand. Inexplicable things happen here and accommodations were made for my family.

  “Ready?” Bryson asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  I left my package in the car. Bryson offered me his arm and I took it since the ground was uneven with tree roots and I was suddenly chilled by the knowledge of what we were doing. I am a modern, rational person, but some things are still taboo. Like disturbing the dead. A dark shade crept upon my soul and I shivered with spiritual cold. Part of me wanted to stop the proceedings and it was hard to stay mute.

  The family mausoleum is one of three and they stand like Calvary on the small manmade hill. Only I didn’t feel that Jesus was there with us, so could take no comfort in this symbolic trinity. Death is indeed a democracy. It makes us all equal. It makes us all nothing.

  Harris was already there in his dark cashmere coat, along with the various official persons needed at an occasion like this. It looked almost like a funeral; certainly there was as much upset in the air as at any service, but we lacked a religious officiant. I was doubtful of there being a prayer for disinterment anyway.

  We stood outside the mausoleum in the bleak gray of stones and lowered clouds, but the interior of the tomb was brightly lit and I could see what the ca
retaker and the forensic officer were doing when I looked their way. I feared for a moment that I might faint again, but instead of dizziness I felt fire ants crawling under my skin and advancing on my bowels. There was a growing expectation of calamity, though I couldn’t guess the specifics of the disaster. And I did not think that I was alone in this. Harris and Bryson both seemed tense, braced for something.

  I didn’t like this fey feeling. Precognition has always seemed like more of a curse than a gift. I have read about people with the Sight and did not want the worry about the future to become a parasite living off my nervous system as it did with those who could “see.” Knowing the future—especially future ills—is no gift.

  Bryson watched me from the corner of his eye and I was touched that he and Harris cared so much about how I was feeling. There was nothing they could do though to make the moment any more bearable. There is a cost to the living when someone dies and I had to pay it in emotional currency. That’s how it is when dealing with the dead, and negative emotion is coin of the realm.

  At least I was dressed for the occasion. My wardrobe does not run to fashion exotica and bright colors. My blacks and grays were somber enough for any funeral.

  “You could wait in the car until they are ready,” Harris murmured.

  Though I had wanted to catch a glimpse of the dead man’s face, thinking that maybe there would be some genetic recognition to tell me if it was truly Kelvin in there, I found that I had to look away from the scene when they began working on the tomb. Curiosity was being overcome by dread and I didn’t think I would be able to look at him after all.