The Clam Bake Murder: A Windward Bay Mystery

by Samantha Doyle

  When I got home, there was a folded note clamped in the letterbox. Manuka had already started clawing it from the vestibule, as he did to anything not properly posted through, but I got to it before the little rascal managed to shred it. To my genuine surprise, this is what it said:

  Sylvia,

  I know you took something from Alice’s room last night, and that you’re onto Elysium. Whatever you do, don’t go to the police. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve found out, for your own sake. What happened to Alice might happen to you. You’re in more danger than you realise, and I can’t protect you, just like I couldn’t protect Alice. She wouldn’t have wanted you mixed up in this, so please...leave well alone. Go live your life.

  After reading the note six times, I stared at it in disbelief, took a deep breath, then read it again, scrutinizing every word and every inference. Gordo was at large, here in Windward, and he’d been to my house. An image of Harrison Ford as The Fugitive, skulking in the shadows, working to solve the puzzle of his wife’s murder, wouldn’t leave me alone. Thank God there wasn’t a one-armed man involved. Or was there? I knew nothing about Alice’s mystery man, L, other than he lived in Windward, he was heavily involved in the Elysium plot, and he had to be at least moderately attractive for a girl like Alice to hook up with him.

  I needed to talk to Billy, but Gordo had warned me not to say anything to the police. Was he watching my every move? What would he do if he found out what Billy already knew. And if I tried to avoid Billy like Del Brady and Melissa Briggs were avoiding me, he’d smell a rat. He’d come to check up on me. What would Gordo do then? Take action against the both of us?

  So this was the pickle: if I went to Billy with what I knew, our lives might be in danger; and if I didn’t go to Billy, our lives would be in danger because he would eventually come to me. I sat on the sofa, hugging my knees while I pondered what to do next. A way out of this that didn’t end with me floating face-down in the bay.

  If only there was some way I could find out where Gordo was hiding. Some way I could flush him out, or better still, lure him out. What was the thing he wanted more than anything right now? His freedom? To be exonerated of the crime he claimed he didn’t commit? Or was he hanging around Windward for another reason? Something to do with Elysium, or his mysterious business partner, L?

  I certainly wasn’t going to wait around and do nothing. So I decided the best option would be to play him at his own game. He was keeping an eye on me? He’d seen me go into Alice’s bedroom? That meant he had to have been in the vicinity last night. No way he could have predicted I’d go there, to the house, and assuming he didn’t have a vehicle in which to follow me—unlikely, given that the whole state was looking for him—the logical conclusion was that he’d been staying near the house, perhaps in the woods across the road. He’d seen my light inside and had come down for a closer look, to see who it was snooping around in his wife’s bedroom.

  It made a droll kind of sense, to hide out within a stone’s throw of the scene of the crime, in an area the police had to have combed until they were sick of it. By day, he’d probably have another den. But hiding places in Windward were limited. It was a small town, and quite busy in summer. Gordo would not be able to move around freely all day. He’d be confined to maybe a handful of places he could go to lie low. I figured he would return to his hidey-hole near his wife’s family home at some point, most likely at night.

  I would wait out there too, all through the night, and the next night and the next if I had to, listening, watching like he had. And I would be armed. If Gordo showed up, I’d get him to talk. I’d find out exactly what had happened to Alice, what Elysium was all about, and the identity of the mysterious L.

  In short, it was time to catch me a fugitive.

  Chapter Five

  At ten-thirty that night, I walked over to Coppinger Drive. Dressed in all-dark clothes, including a warm, black hoodie and a pair of old gray jeans I used to go hiking in, and my hiking boots, I sneaked off the sidewalk when there was no traffic and vaulted over the stone wall about three hundred yards from Alice’s house. There I crouched, behind the wall, for several minutes, making sure I wasn’t being followed by someone on foot, either through the forest or from the road.

  The only sounds were the rumble of the surf, a steady rhythm of cricket noises, and the distant beat of beach party music. Satisfied, I scrambled up the earthen verge and darted into the forest. The ground was bone dry, and there were roots everywhere, making it tricky to keep my footing at any kind of speed. So I crept instead, stayed low. The juice in my bicycle water bottle sloshed around inside my rucksack, but it wasn’t loud enough to give me away. What I needed now was a hiding place—somewhere opposite the house.

  I soon stumbled across a dip in the ground. If I’d been looking for it I wouldn’t have seen it unless I’d approached from the opposite end, because it was obscured by a thicket running lengthwise down one side and a dead tree that had fallen right in front of it. The ground gave way without warning. And it was quite a way off the beaten path. Walkers had no reason to come this way; there was nothing else here.

  Unpacking my binoculars, and the flick-knife I’d kept ever since senior high—Alice and I had both got hold of one after a girl from our class had been assaulted on her way home—I found a decent vantage spot and, resting on a couple of folded blankets, started my vigil.

  The odd car passed by. A few trucks. One glow-bright cyclist whose panting and wheezing did not sound healthy at all. At around midnight, I polished off a tuna and sweet corn sandwich and a banana, swilled them down with a few grateful gulps of juice. Asked myself what the hell I was doing out here, and what Manuka would make of his mistress going A.W.O.L.

  A few hours later, before dawn broke, I massaged my sore back and knees, ate the last sandwich and decided field work was not my thing. But I would come back the next night anyway. I was convinced the theory was sound, that Gordo would return here at some point. Unless the note he’d left was a farewell gesture. But I didn’t think so. No, he was watching certain parties in Windward, keeping tabs, but whom exactly and the reasons why I could not figure out unless I caught up with him.

  I went home at daybreak, physically shattered and morally down-in-the-dumps. Manuka greeted me on the front fence. When I bent to stroke him, he jumped onto my bowed back and purred his head off, so I walked into the house like that—an insomniac hunchback—the little guy balancing on me with impressive devotion...and tenacity (those claws!!).

  I slept till just after noon, then drove to the bakery to have a word with Gabe. I really needed the rest of the week off, so, rather than sponge on his good nature, I reminded him I had some annual leave saved up and could use that instead.

  “That’s fine, Sylvia. You go ahead and take that extra week. But try to pop in some time before it’s up, will you? I’d like to introduce you to the new manager.”

  “What do you mean? You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “Yep. Week after next. It’s all arranged—I’m heading for the Hub.”

  “Portland? You got promoted?”

  “I sure did.” He beamed so brightly he was almost aglow. We got a blast of heat from one of the ovens as Pete opened it up to check the bread. Gabe wiped his brow with his cuff, then rolled up his sleeves. There was a nasty cut on his right forearm. Two nasty cuts. As if something had sliced him. But they’d started to scab over.

  “Good for you, man.” I shook his hand. “It’s been a long time coming. What finally clinched it?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe they just had a spot open...at long last.” His false modesty didn’t ring true. Gabe was the monarch of his bakery—he normally preened like a peacock whenever he received acclaim. I started to suspect he had bad news for the rest of us, that maybe our jobs were in jeopardy.

  “What about this new manager?” I asked. “Will he be keeping everything the same?”

  “I expect so. From what I hear, he likes to run a tight ship. A real s
tickler for hygiene.”

  “Nothing new there, then.”

  He smiled. “You’ll be fine, all of you. And if you don’t think he’s ready, you have my permission to put him in his place...” He pointed to the roaring oven. “Make sure he gets an even tan.”

  I had to laugh at that. “A Solinski special. So did you hear anything more about...you know...” I lowered my voice to a whisper, not wanting Pete to overhear “...about the recipe? My Cut Rounds.”

  “I’ve mentioned it to the people at the Hub,” he said. “But the option was signed confidentially, so they’re not allowed to give out a name. Whoever took credit for your recipe covered his tracks well.”

  “And there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Without evidence to prove intellectual property, it would just be your word against his, whoever it is. He could claim you were trying to take credit for his recipe, that you stole it off him somehow.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “My advice, Sylvia, is to let it go and move on. If you lodged any kind of complaint, if you kicked up a fuss without compelling evidence, you never know how it could work against you in future, for your career at Ainscough’s, which I have no doubt will be a long and successful one.”

  “If I keep quiet.”

  “It pains me to say it, but yes. As your friend and mentor, I would advise caution. Dazzle them some other way. I know you’re capable of it. You’ve proved you’re capable of it. All you need now is the stroke of luck to go with it. So keep on rolling—so to speak.”

  We both winced at that stale old pun. Then I wished him good luck and said I had a few errands to run. He returned to his duties, whistling away. And my heart sank a little. Gabe was leaving Windward, probably for good.

  Another friend gone.

  ###

  The weather grew blustery throughout the evening, but by sunset it had calmed down. The temperature, though, never recovered. Dark clouds piled overhead, blotting out the moon and the stars. The rain didn’t reach Windward, but I took my warmest ski jacket and full waterproofs for the forest stakeout. I arrived at the hollow around 22.50, not in the best of moods. Downright dejected, in fact. Life seemed to be taking everything from me and giving nothing back in return. And I don’t think I’d ever wanted to be with Billy Langdale as much as I did at that moment, surrounded by such spooky desolation.

  It didn’t take long for me to work up an appetite. The combination of fretting and concentrating often did that. So I unscrewed the top off my Thermos flask and poured a cup of Oxtail soup. It was way too hot. No sooner did I puff my cheeks to blow on it than I heard footsteps. From the forest interior. And someone was whispering. Rapid, angry whispers.

  I gently poured the soup back into the flask and screwed the top on. Retrieved the flick-knife from the side pocket of my rucksack. Opened it. The whispering ceased but the footsteps continued—toward, definitely toward me. I crouched low against the fallen tree, ready to spring into action should this person attack me.

  It was so dark now I could barely see to the other end of the hollow, spitting distance. But the stranger had the same problem. He couldn’t see me, otherwise the rhythm of his steps would have been interrupted. Not a single pause. Then it hit me, and I felt idiotic for not having thought of it sooner. There was no point looking for Gordo’s hiding place; this was his hiding place! The most sheltered spot opposite the house.

  “Gordo?”

  Now he halted. “Who’s there?”

  I flashed my torch beam at his face, and he threw a gloved hand up to shield his eyes. “Jesus! Sylvia—what the hell! Lower that damn thing.”

  “Sit down over there, Gordo. Very slowly. No sudden moves,” I told him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  He was wearing a heavy, too-large gray turtleneck sweater that looked as though it had been dipped in the silty shallows—with him inside it—and hadn’t had chance to dry out. His pants were caked with muck. He was badly in need of a shave, resembled a beached fisherman. Pretty much the only unsoiled thing about him was his Red Sox beanie, which I highly doubted belonged to him. He was from Kentucky.

  “You got my note?” he asked, creasing his face into a puzzled scowl. “I said lower the damn flashlight.”

  “I’ll be giving the orders around here.” But I did as he wished anyway—I know I’d have hated for someone to dazzle me from the darkness.

  He sat cross-legged on the hard earth. “Well, you’ve found me. Whoopee-do. What next, Nancy Drew?”

  “Don’t even try to crack wise! I should turn your sorry ass in right now. Or better yet, bury you out here. For Alice.”

  “But you’re not going to do either, are you. Because you’re not convinced I killed her. You suspect there’s someone else involved.”

  “I know there’s someone else involved.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “How do you know?”

  “Never mind that. I just want to know what you know, Gordo.”

  “About what?”

  “About everything. The Elysium scheme, your partner in Windward, who was also Alice’s lover, and exactly what happened the night she was murdered.” I tapped the knife blade on the rim of the flashlight. “We’re not going anywhere until I get the whole tale. You understand?”

  “You’re nothing like I imagined you. The way Alice described you, I thought you’d be—”

  “People change. Some have no choice but to change. You should know that, you cruel sonofabitch. You drained the light right out of her. You made her life a misery.”

  He stared at the ground between us, didn’t respond.

  “So you tell me the truth, right here, or I’ll bring a world of misery down on you, for what you did to Alice.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he pleaded.

  “Then who did?”

  “If I tell you, will you promise to let me go and not tell the police I’m in Windward?”

  “No.” I paused. “But I’ll think about it. You’ll have to convince me beyond any doubt.”

  He waved the notion away. “Not good enough. I need to be able to move about freely for the next few days. It’s critical.”

  “For what? Elysium?”

  He considered his reply. “Partly. But the man who killed Alice—he’s aiming to get away with it, right under everyone’s noses. He’s pinned the whole thing on me. I need some evidence to incriminate him before we go to the authorities, otherwise he’ll squirm out of it. The same way he squirmed his way into Alice’s bed. That sneaky rat bastard.”

  “Who is he, Gordo? Who’s your silent partner? Who killed your wife?”

  “I’ll give you his name, but it will have to be at the end, when I’ve figured out how to link him to Alice’s murder.” He took his beanie off to scratch his scalp. “I doesn’t suppose you have anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like some piece of evidence that doesn’t quite fit if I’m the killer. You were in the house for quite a while the other night. What did you find in Alice’s room?”

  “Um, nothing really. Just old memorabilia.”

  “You sure?”

  He’d somehow turned the tables on me—he was interrogating me. That was the last straw. “Okay, I’ll not say it again. Either you explain it all right now or I march straight to Chief Mattson and take your note with me.” I flashed the torch beam in his face for emphasis.

  He just leaned forward, squinted into the glare. “Then do it. Go to Mattson. Tell him what you’ve found out, then tell him how you found it out, where you went to get that information.” Rising to his feet, he added, “But before you do, you’ll have to kill me.”

  I thought about lifting the knife into the beam and holding it there as a deterrent, but figured he’d already seen it. And I realized—this wasn’t going to end well for me unless I played along. Was he armed? I doubted it; but he was certainly desperate enough to do me harm if he felt he had to.

  �
��So what’s your plan?” I asked. Still dazzling him with the light, to blind him, I took my cell phone out of the rucksack and put it on silent. Then I rang Billy and put the phone back, leaving it switched on. Hopefully he’d realize I was in some sort of trouble and do something police-y about it: go to my house first, see if I’d dialed by mistake, then maybe trace the call, triangulate the location of my cell.

  “We’re going to your place,” he said, “and you’re going to show me what you found in Alice’s room.”

  “But I didn’t find anything—”

  “Bull. You’ve been working overtime putting this whole thing together. Visiting Del Brady, our house, the jetty, your deputy boyfriend, and probably talking to the other Selectmen as well: you’ve earned your Girl Scout badge and then some, Cousin Sylvia.”

  “Don’t call me that. Not ever. You’re not related to me. You disgust me.”

  “Be that as it may, we’re still going to your house. And I want what you found.”

  I squeezed the knife handle in my fist. “And if I say no?”

  “You might not leave this forest.”

  I flashed the blade inside the beam. “Try it.”

  “Don’t make me.”

  “Don’t make me make you.” I got up slowly, swung the rucksack onto my shoulder. “You keep saying you’re innocent. So far, you’re not doing a great job of convincing me.”

  He took a step toward me. “I’m warning you, Sylvia. And I’ve nothing to lose.”

  “You’ve everything to lose. Or you wouldn’t still be here, skulking around. You’re desperate to prove your innocence. I say threatening me isn’t the way to do it.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “You knucklehead. You let me investigate, and you point me in the right direction! If the real killer’s out there, he’s working against you, making sure he doesn’t get caught, only he’s got the advantage because no one’s looking for him. He doesn’t have to stay hidden. It’s only a matter of time before you get caught, Gordo. And if you haven’t got the evidence to exonerate you before then, you’ll never get it. Unless you give me what I need and I can get it. Don’t you see? If you’re innocent, I might be your only hope.”