Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series)

by Jenifer LeClair

  “I’m looking for Jack Trudeau,” Brie said.

  “You found him.” The eyes roamed over her.

  “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Come ahead.” As she stepped over the gunwale and into the boat, Brie could feel him weighing and measuring every inch of her.

  “You must be the pretty detective everyone’s talking about. You’re stirring up more interest than that body up in Klemper’s store.” There was an edge to his voice as cold as the north Atlantic. “I figured you’d get around to me before long.”

  “I’m told Pete McAllister worked for you a few years ago.”

  Trudeau stepped uncomfortably close to her, but Brie held her ground on the gently rolling deck and met his gaze with a distillate of pure grit and defiance she’d formulated over twelve years of dealing with tough, often intimidating men. Sensing that her borders were well guarded, Trudeau took a step back, removed the pipe from his mouth, and answered in a tone tinged with respect.

  “Pete McAllister was my sternman for a couple seasons. I let him go three years ago during a bad season. Lobsters just dried up that year. Couldn’t afford to pay him.” He took a long pull from his pipe and watched her.

  “So, he lived here on the island during that time?” Brie asked.

  “That’s right. Rented a little cabin up the east shore from here.” Trudeau jabbed with his pipe stem toward the island. “More of a shack, really—just two small rooms and a privy out back. Guess he liked the seclusion.”

  “Was he a good worker?”

  “Worked hard enough. It’s a backbreaking job, sternman is.”

  “Did he ever have any trouble with anyone here on the island?” Brie waited for his reaction.

  Trudeau watched a seagull wheel and land on the choppy water. “McAllister was more interested in his rock climbing than befriending anyone here on the island. He’d have a few drinks up at the Two Claws Bar on occasion. But mostly kept to himself. There was no trouble.” He put the pipe back in his mouth.

  “He had a reputation as a womanizer,” Brie said, observing the lobsterman closely. “Was he involved with anyone here on the island?”

  Trudeau drilled his eyes into her with such intensity that Brie felt pressure on the back of her skull. “He took the ferry to the mainland most weekends—taught rock climbing over there, I heard. Did his womanizing over there too, I’d guess.” His voice was flat, emotionless, unreadable, but Brie felt a familiar vibration in her gut which always told her one of two things—be careful, or dig deeper in this spot. Trudeau continued, “After the accident he moved away. Was gone within two weeks.”

  “Accident?” Surprise came before Brie could mask it. “What happened?”

  “McAllister had brought a group of rock climbers he knew over from the mainland. They were going to scale the cliffs on the other end of the island. A girl died that day—girl from Rockland. It was all over the papers. Something went wrong when she was near the top of the cliff. She fell. Name was Megan or Marilyn—something like that, but more unusual.” He took a deliberate pull from his pipe and watched her.

  “It would help if you could remember the name,” Brie encouraged.

  His brows knit together in an attempt to recover the lost name, and he studied the deck planks underfoot as if it might be written there. Suddenly he brightened. “Madeleine—that was it. Her name was Madeleine. Can’t remember the last name, though.”

  The name meant nothing to Brie, but there was a chance it might to someone back at the inn. She thanked Trudeau and climbed onto the dock, conscious of his eyes on her. She was about to leave when a final question occurred to her. Turning back around, she found herself at eye level with the black-haired goliath. “Are you married, Jack?” she asked.

  A hint of amusement momentarily warmed the steely eyes. “No, but if you’re interested I’d be glad to let you sample the goods.” His eyes did a lascivious scan of her raincoat, pausing at all the appropriate places.

  “Ever been married?” Brie asked, ignoring his lewdness.

  “Never found anyone worth giving up my freedom for as yet.” Trudeau took a step forward, closing the gap between them. Brie felt his raw lust engulf her. He spoke in a husky voice. “I’d trade my freedom pretty quick for the thrill of hearin’ you beggin’ me for it every night.”

  Brie didn’t miss a beat. “That sounds something like a proposal, Jack. But I’m afraid I have to return to my job in downtown Minneapolis.” She stepped even closer to him and spoke seductively. “If you’re interested, though, we could get a little apartment right on the bus line near police headquarters, and I’ll bet you could find some work in a grocery store nearby—maybe something dealing with seafood.”

  Trudeau staggered back, as if the repellent thought had smacked him square between the eyes. “No thanks,” he stammered. “I’d be lost without the sea. I’m sure you’ll find a nice fellow to live on the bus line with you though.”

  Brie shrugged as if his lack of interest mystified her. Then she turned and walked off the dock, retracing her steps back along the road.

  She had passed two docks when she heard a voice call, “Hello there.” Turning, she saw a young woman hailing her from the back of a lobsterboat. Brie immediately reversed course and headed out the dock, greeting the woman with a wave. As a detective, she’d learned to seize any opportunity that presented itself, and she hoped this one might offer yet another perspective on Pete’s time here. As she neared the end of the dock, Brie recognized the woman’s face. She was the same person who’d been looking out the window at them when they carried the body up to Fred’s store, her shyness of this morning obviously ousted by curiosity.

  “You must be the detective that’s sailing on the Maine Wind,” she said when Brie was within ten feet of the boat.

  “Word travels fast around here, doesn’t it?” Brie said, smiling.

  “Sure does. And believe me, once Fred Klemper knows something, the rest of the village will find out within fifteen minutes.”

  Brie found her jovial nature a relief after dealing with Jack Trudeau.

  “Why don’t you come aboard and have a cup of coffee? Wind’s like a knife today—goes right through you.”

  “Thanks,” said Brie. “That’d be great.” She stepped over the gunwale into the boat and followed the woman into the wheelhouse.

  “Name’s Anna Marie Stevens,” she said, sitting down on a wooden crate and pouring coffee from an old black thermos into a battered metal cup she’d set on the floor of the wheelhouse. “And this is my boat—Just Jake.” Anna said it with warmth in her voice, like one introducing a close friend. “She was my dad’s boat. Jake was his name—Grandpa’s too. When he died two years ago, I took ’er over. Took over his traps too.” She poured the second dose into the thermos top, screwed the stopper back in place, and handed the metal cup to Brie.

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” Brie said. She pulled up a second crate Anna had pointed to and introduced herself. “I’m Brie Beaumont.”

  “I was keeping an eye on you over there.” She nodded toward Trudeau’s boat. “Jack can be unpredictable.”

  “Thanks for that,” Brie said. “I’m tougher than I look, though. You run into your fair share of ones like him in my line of work.”

  She studied Anna, who was, without a doubt, the prettiest lobster fisherman she’d ever meet. Her tanned skin set off a pair of spring green eyes, and her long, thick hair, tangled from the strong wind, was as black and wild as a storm wave at night. “I’m surprised people are down on their boats today—the weather’s so bad.” Brie took a large swallow of coffee and her eyebrows went up with surprise. “This is good!”

  “I can’t deal with bad weather and bad coffee,” Anna joked. “I’m just cleanin’ up the boat a little. This storm’s gonna break by morning, and I wanna head out early. It’s too bad about Pete McAllister,” she said, shifting the topic, undoubtedly driven by her curiosity. “What’s gonna happen with his body?”

&nb
sp; “The Coast Guard will pick it up as soon as they can get here.” Brie looked out at the nodding lobsterboats. “Did you know Pete very well? I’m told he lived here for two years.”

  “He was friendly enough but didn’t have much interest in the locals. Word went around that he was trying to break into the lobster business—maybe hoping to get his own boat someday. The boat’s only about ten percent of it, though. You need a territory, and believe me, they’re closely guarded. You pretty much have to inherit one to make it in this business.”

  “I’m sure it’s no secret that Pete was a womanizer. Did you or anyone you know ever date him?”

  “Pete left here most weekends. There was one girl he cozied up to when he first got here, but she and her parents moved away. I heard he liked the submissive type, though, and well, that’s just not me. You gotta be tough to make it in this business. Dad raised me to stand on my own. I could never play games with any man. Someday I’ll find the right guy, but he’ll have to take me the way I am—lobsterboat and all.”

  Brie admired Anna’s spunk and wouldn’t have minded passing a little more time with her, but she needed to get back to the inn. Something was bugging her, picking around the edges of her brain. Something about Pete and the rock climbing accident, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Now she knew why he hadn’t mentioned living on the island. A girl had died on his climb—he probably felt responsible. She finished her last swallow of coffee, stood up and thanked Anna for her time. Leaving her in the wheelhouse, Brie walked to the stern of the boat, stepped up on the dock, and headed back toward the village.

  Her encounter with Trudeau ran through her mind as she moved briskly along the road and started up the hill toward the inn. His desire for her had struck some repellent yet fascinating chord, and it played on her, eventually transposing itself to another key. She increased her pace in an attempt to clear her head, but it was suddenly full of the thought, the image, the very scent of John DuLac. And Garrett’s words: “Sounds like the captain’s falling for you.” Desire clung to her, fogging her mind. DuLac had somehow managed to make his way under her skin, and his presence there, coupled with the brisk walk up the hill, was pushing beads of sweat up through her pores, making her layers of clothing suddenly uncomfortable. She wondered if this uncontrolled desire was a healthy thing—a sign of recovery—or a sign that she was losing it completely.

  “Snap out of it, Brie,” she scolded herself loudly. She stopped in her tracks, unzipped her raincoat and turned to face the raw wind. “Now, focus,” she told herself. She thought again of Trudeau’s account of the accident, and the name he’d assigned to the dead girl. Madeleine. Something about that name. What was it? Why did it ring some distant bell in her consciousness?

  “Think, Brie. Madeleine—Elaine—Adelaide—Mad—Maddening—Madie. Madie!” It struck her like a hard slap. She’d seen that name just this morning. It was tattooed across Tim’s chest underneath a rising sun. Madie. Could it be a coincidence? Madeleine—Madie. No way.

  Pieces began to fall into place. The tattoo, the name, and the picture she’d seen in Tim’s cabin of the group of young people. There were packs and ropes on the ground—climbing equipment. And the wild look in Tim’s eyes when she’d encountered him on the bluffs. His need to stay there and the anguish in his voice when he spoke about the relationship that had ended. Tim’s girl, the one the sun rose and set in, had died up on the cliffs that day. Died on the climb that Pete was in charge of. Oh, motive, sweet motive, Brie thought.

  But her exuberance was short-lived as another thought immediately registered on her radar. She took off at a dead run up the hill. Two breathless minutes later she rounded a sharp turn in the road and nearly collided with John. She skidded to a stop as he caught her in his arms.

  “God, you scared me,” she said, stepping back. She bent over from the waist, placing her hands on her knees, and gulped in air, trying to recover from the jog up the hill.

  “I thought I’d better come find you. Tim hasn’t returned to the inn—I sent Scott out to look for him, but no luck. What’s more, Will managed to sneak out.”

  “What!” Brie came to attention.

  “I said Will snuck out of the inn.”

  “How?” Brie demanded in a February-in-Minnesota tone of voice.

  “He went down to take a shower not too long after you left. I’d been down once to check on him—make sure he was still down there—and when I came up the phone rang. I grabbed it in the library, and when I came out a few minutes later Will was nowhere to be found. I immediately sent Scott after him.”

  “Did he find him?”

  “Yup, he was heading back toward the inn. Said he wanted to get a little exercise.”

  “Yeah, right, I’ll believe that when mooses fly. He’s the laziest, whiniest excuse for a human I’ve encountered in a long time.”

  “I think it’s moose,” John said.

  “What?”

  “I think it’s just moose—you said ‘mooses.’ I think moose is the plural too.”

  “Really. Well, thank you for that, Mr. Grammarian. Now, if you could just be that conscientious about policing the showers, we wouldn’t have to keep retrieving people.”

  “Sorry, Brie. I admit I’ve never been good at bathroom patrol. In grade school I always got in trouble for letting too many boys in there at once. And you’re starting to remind me of this one nun…”

  Brie held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, enough,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We have to find Tim. Now. So where did Scott look?”

  “After he brought Will back to the inn, I sent him out again to get Tim. Will said he’d seen Tim near the cliffs, so Scott headed up there. When he didn’t find him, he checked a couple of adjoining trails—one that drops down toward the village and another one that runs toward the western side of the island. After about forty minutes he came back to the inn to see if Tim had returned. I told him to stay with the rest of the group while I went to find you.”

  “Come on. We’ve gotta hurry.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I just hope we’re not too late,” she called back. She was already jogging up the remainder of the road.

  They rounded the inn without stopping, heading for the trail that wound up to the bluffs. Once in the woods their jog was reduced to a brisk hike due to the uneven ground. Brie’s body was damp from the exertion. She wished she’d waited on that shower. Finally she shed her raincoat, laying it by the side of the trail. “I’ll get it on the way back,” she said.

  Within ten minutes they stepped out of the woods onto bare granite and looked around. There was no sign of Tim. Drawn by the sound of the pounding surf, Brie walked toward the edge of the cliff.

  “Brie!” John caught up with her and grabbed her by the wrist. “Be careful—there’s loose rock.”

  “It’s okay, John. I’m not a child you need to keep well in hand.”

  “Just be careful, okay?” he said, moving back from the edge.

  He’s not too keen on heights, she thought. Stepping cautiously up to the very brink, she looked over. Her fears were confirmed. Death floated a hundred feet below. Tim’s body bobbed face down in the surf, held captive by a group of boulders that kept his body from being carried away on the undertow.

  “He went off the cliff, John. He’s dead.” She stared down as if mesmerized by the scene below.

  John stepped up beside her and looked over. “My God, Brie, what could have happened? Do you think he slipped?”

  “I think it’s more likely he jumped,” she replied. “I believe he killed Pete to avenge the death of his girlfriend, Madie. I learned from Jack Trudeau that she died here on a rock-climbing outing Pete was leading.”

  “I remember the story about that girl’s death.” John watched the sea surging far below. “It was in the papers two or three years ago. Pete’s name had to have been there too, but it never rang a bell when I hired him.”

  “It’s not that surprisi
ng, John. You deal with lots of people and lots of names every season.”

  Brie stepped back a few feet and was studying the ground for any signs of a struggle when the ghost of a movement drew her attention to the edge of the woods. As she approached, she saw it was a piece of paper. Caught in the brush near the ground, it flapped erratically up and down.

  John was lying on his stomach looking over the edge of the cliff, trying to decide the best course of action for recovering the body, when Brie hailed him. Carefully getting up from his prone position, he made his way over to her. The damp rag of paper she handed him had a notch torn from the top, as if it might have been nailed to a tree. In blue printing Tim had penned his final words:

  Pete had to die because he took Madie away.

  Now my only peace is with her. I’m sorry.

  14

  BRIE AND JOHN HIKED DOWN the narrow trail toward the inn. Several silent minutes passed before either of them was willing to talk about the next move. Brie finally broke the silence. “How will we retrieve the body?” she asked.

  “We can’t get to it by boat—the waves are too high. We’d be smashed on the rocks. I’ll radio the Coast Guard when we get back and see if they can’t get to us before dark, but my guess is we’ll have to deal with this. There’s a rescue harness on the ship for retrieving a man from the water. One of us will have to go down the cliff after the body. Scott’s the best choice—he’s used to working up high on the masts. We’ll rig up the boson’s sling to a rope and pulley. With a few of us on top of the cliff, we shouldn’t have any trouble hauling the body up.”

  “I guess Fred will have to make room for one more body,” Brie said, imagining what his reaction might be. “That cooler’s really filling up. I don’t know if he’ll be able to stand the excitement.” Like many cops, Brie tended toward black humor in moments of stress.