She started the Jeep’s engine and put the heater on high. She was about to pull out of the parking spot when she remembered she wanted to do something first—something important.
She leaned over and slipped her mobile phone out of her back pocket. In the hysteria that had enveloped her at the boathouse and on the way to the hospital, she’d silenced the phone, which had been pinging and ringing, to keep it from distracting her and her focus on Neil. She hadn’t had time to check her messages and calls since then.
As she suspected, there were quite a few, but she bypassed them for the moment. Instead, she pulled up her photo app, scrolled through some of the images she’d taken recently, and found the last photo she’d snapped.
In the boathouse. Of the murder weapon.
It had been lying next to Neil’s body, and it was why she’d initially thought he might be dead.
It had been a knife. A sharp, ferocious-looking one, with a long blade of perhaps ten or twelve inches, made from old steel, now stained and pockmarked and tinged red. The knife’s edge didn’t look that sharp anymore, but the point could pierce just about anything. The handle was made of wood, now stained dark and cracked, and had a metal handguard perhaps an inch wide along the length of the handle, obviously to protect the fingers of the wielder. It certainly wasn’t a new knife. It looked like the type of thing she’d see in a museum. An antique. Certainly not something you’d expect to find in an old boathouse—or then again, maybe it was.
At first she’d thought Neil had been stabbed with it, but upon inspection, she’d found no knife wounds in his body, fortunately. Still, she suspected the knife might have been the one used to kill Mick Rilke. What it was doing there, lying beside Neil’s body, she didn’t know.
She’d left the knife undisturbed when she’d found it, except to make sure it posed no threat to Neil. She knew the police would want to examine it. But she’d taken a photo of it with her phone’s camera before the police arrived. Because something about it had caught her eye—something that had given her a chill.
Toward the back of the knife’s handle, near the spot where the metal guard attached to the hilt, the letters S.S. had been neatly carved into the old wood.
It had been a shock, seeing those initials, because she’d seen them before, carved into an old wooden treasure chest she, her father, and Neil had dug up on the Crawford property a few years ago. A treasure chest that had held a variety of valuable items, including gold, jewels, and some important land deeds to properties in Cape Willington.
The box, they’d determined at the time, had belonged to a long-dead scoundrel named Silas Sykes, who had frequented this part of Maine more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
Now, here was a knife—potentially a murder weapon—with the same initials carved into its handle.
Where had the knife come from? How had it gotten into the canoe beside Neil? What was the significance of those initials? And, most important, who had it belonged to?
She thought she might know a way to find out.
While she’d been watching the EMTs load Neil’s stretcher onto the ambulance at the boathouse, she’d heard two of the police officers talking. “It looks like a collectible of some sort,” she’d heard one of them say.
A collectible. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but the words had swirled through her consciousness as she’d been in her dream state in the hospital room. It was only when she’d stepped out of the building into the cool night air that the connection had suddenly popped into her mind.
Artie Groves. One of her father’s buddies. Artie had experience buying and selling items on eBay and other online auction and shopping sites. He dealt with all kinds of memorabilia and collectibles like this. He might know where the knife came from.
Her thumbs moving swiftly, she texted the photo of the knife to Artie with a quick note attached, asking him if it looked familiar and if he’d seen anything like it before.
Then, knowing she’d done all she could do tonight—or, rather, this morning—she dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, popped the transmission into gear, backed out of her parking spot, and drove home on an empty road through the dark, misty night.
TWENTY-NINE
A commotion woke her—and the feeling that she was slowly being suffocated. She tried to move her legs but couldn’t. It felt as if a bear had her pinned down, lying heavily across her lower body and part of her chest.
She struggled to turn over but couldn’t. She tried to pull the blankets up closer around her neck and shoulders but they wouldn’t budge. Something was on top of them, holding them down.
Groaning, sleepy eyed, she struggled to lift her head and tried to pry open her eyes to see what was going on.
A heavy, furry something scooched up on her, thick paws pressing gently on her upper arm and shoulder. A big wet tongue appeared out of nowhere and licked her chin and neck.
She pulled her head back instinctively, under the covers, as she realized who it was.
“Random,” she breathed, and settled her head back down on the pillow. The dog had fallen asleep last night at the foot of her bed, but sometime during the night he had climbed up onto the bed with her. She’d been so far gone she’d never noticed his presence.
She tried to pull the blankets up around her again. “You have to give me a little breathing room, buddy,” she muttered as she closed her eyes again. “I just need . . . to sleep . . . a little longer.”
She closed her eyes and tried to settle back down, but the dog snuggled up closer to her, nudging at her through the blankets and sheets with his nose.
“What?” she asked, her mouth working dryly. “Don’t tell me you have to go out.”
She wondered what time it was, and was just about to poke her head over the covers to check the bedside clock, when she heard footsteps outside her bedroom door and a quick rapping sound. “Candy? You up?”
It was her father. He knocked again, more urgently. “It’s me. Are you decent?”
She could feel Random’s head jerk up, suddenly alert, and his body tense, but he didn’t move—for the moment.
The knob turned and the door pushed open a crack. “Hello?”
Candy wrenched her head up and turned it vaguely toward the door. “Dad?”
Her mind was still groggy. After her restless, uncomfortable doze at the hospital and the nearly hour-long drive back to the cape, she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep once back home and in her own bed. She’d lost all track of time. It felt as if she’d been out for days. “What time is it?”
Her father opened the door a little farther and poked his head around the corner. “Just after eight thirty. Saturday morning, to be specific. I came up to see if Random wants to go out. And you have a visitor.”
At the sound of his name, Random ruffed softly in the back of his throat. A moment later he was on his feet, taking a shaky stance on the soft, unstable mattress before making a lumbering and not altogether graceful leap off the bed. He landed heavily, his big paws thumping into the wood floorboards. In a fairly relaxed manner, he ambled across the room and out the door around Doc’s legs.
“There you go, boy,” Doc said as the dog passed by him and rumbled downstairs. “I’ll be right down.”
Candy finally was able to rearrange herself in the covers, but as she resettled herself, tucking the blankets in behind her knees, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be staying here for long. “Thanks for taking him out,” she mumbled. “Who’s the visitor?”
“Artie. He says he has some news for you.”
“What about?”
“Not quite sure. Something to do with a photo you sent him last night. He said he wouldn’t talk about it until we were both downstairs together.”
“A photo?”
She remembered now. The photo of the possible murder weapon—the old knife with the long bl
ade and handguard—which she’d sent to Artie the night before.
It all came back to her in a rush. She sat up suddenly in bed, the covers still wrapped around her, her mind instantly alert.
Neil.
She looked over toward the door. “How is Neil doing? Any word?”
Her father shook his head. “Finn called over there a little while ago, but he wasn’t able to get through to the room. The nurse just said he was resting. Apparently he’s been out most of the night. Now he’s headed over to the berry farm.”
“Who? Neil?”
“No, Finn.”
“Finn’s doing what?” Candy looked confused.
Her father clarified. “Sorry, pumpkin, it’s been a busy morning so far. Lots going on, you know. It’s Maple Madness Weekend, remember? We’ve got a bunch of tourists coming into town to watch sap boiling and taste fresh maple syrup on pancakes. We can’t have one of our only two sugar shacks down at the most important time of the year. So, with Neil out of it for the moment, Finn went over to the Crawford place to see if he could get the sugar shack going. That’s why he called over to the hospital—to talk to Neil and get his approval. And some last-minute pointers. But he couldn’t get through, so he’s winging it over there. He thought, well, he wondered if you’d be willing to help him out, once you’re up and running, since you’ve worked with Neil in the sugar shack before.”
“Of course. But what about the community center? The pancake breakfast? I was planning to help out there this morning.”
“Bumpy’s got it under control for the moment, along with a bunch of other volunteers. I talked to him just a little while ago. He said there’s a pretty good crowd already. I’m headed over there myself shortly. Artie’s going too, as soon as he’s had a chance to talk to you, though he says he might split his time between the sugar shack and the community center—wherever he’s needed most.”
“So who’s with Neil?”
“At the moment, no one, other than the police.”
“The police?” She’d barely woken up, but already her head was spinning.
“That’s something Finn did find out,” her father clarified. “The police are at the hospital right now. Apparently they want to talk to Neil as soon as he wakes up. See if they can find out how he wound up in that boathouse, and if it might have something to do with Mick Rilke’s death.”
“Mick Rilke?” Candy could feel her heart thumping as her mind jumped ahead.
Did the police think Neil had something to do with Mick’s death?
I need to get over there, right away, she thought, to see how he’s doing—and to run interference for him. He could probably use a friendly face in his corner right about now.
And he’s probably missing Random.
Unaware of his daughter’s thoughts, Doc continued. “I know, it’s getting crazy out there, isn’t it?” He shook his head as he chuckled softly. “Looks like we came up with the right name for this Maple Madness Weekend thing. We’ve got tourists flooding into town with all these plans and expectations. We’ve got a sugar shack whose owner is in the hospital. We’ve got another man in the morgue. We’ve got this pancake breakfast going on at the new community center, and the marshmallow roast in Town Park later today. And we haven’t even started talking about tomorrow and the scavenger hunt.” He shook his head, which was still craned around the end of the door as he leaned forward, one hand on the doorknob. “Sorry to get you out of bed so early, pumpkin, after all you went through yesterday with the boathouse and all, which probably has you shaken up, but there’s a lot going on. Why, it’s been so busy, I haven’t had my coffee yet!”
Despite all she’d just learned, Candy couldn’t help but smile. If her father hadn’t had his first cup of coffee by this time, she knew it was a busy morning indeed.
Time for her to get up and get moving.
She couldn’t help groaning a little as she threw the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be right down. Give me ten minutes.”
Downstairs, she smelled freshly brewed coffee, and Doc was making eggs and toast. Artie Groves was already munching away. He was chewing on a piece of toast thickly layered with homemade blueberry jam as she walked into the kitchen. He waved and she waved back, wiping the sleep out of her eyes as she stopped at the coffeepot to pour herself a cup. Doc had his cup close at hand. Half was gone already. It seemed her father was quickly catching up on his morning routine.
She grabbed a three-day-old banana nut muffin from an old metal tin on the countertop before sitting down opposite Artie at the kitchen table. She launched right into it.
“So, you’re here to talk about the photo, right? What have you found out?”
“Yeah,” Doc said, for a moment turning away from the stove to look toward their guest. “We’re both here now. So what gives? What’s this big mystery of yours?”
Artie nodded, swallowed another bite of toast, licked a dollop of blueberry jam from a fingertip, and took a quick sip of coffee before he reached for his phone. “Right, the photo of the knife you sent me last night,” he said, pulling it up on the phone’s screen. “I didn’t get a chance to look at it until this morning. I usually have the phone on silent mode overnight, you know. And you sent this to me at, what, four A.M. or something like that?”
“Something like that,” Candy said, trying to stifle a yawn.
He nodded. “At first, when I looked at it, I didn’t really register what you were asking,” Artie said with a somewhat apologetic tone. “I thought you were forwarding something from one of my eBay people, so I didn’t pay much attention to it. Sometimes I help them buy and sell items like this, so I thought that was the case here—you wanted me to help someone do that, or to get my opinion about something.”
“That’s why I sent it to you,” Candy confirmed. “The second part, actually—to get your opinion about it.”
“Right. As I said, it took me a few moments, but then I realized what it was. And yes, I know a few people who collect knives like this.” Artie’s brow furrowed, and he reached up with an index finger to push his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. His eyes became a little bigger as he looked across the table at her. “I assume you came across it last night in that boathouse where Doc said you found Neil?”
Candy nodded. “You assume correctly.”
“So I suppose it could be tied somehow to Mick Rilke’s murder?”
“It could be.”
“The murder weapon?”
Candy avoided the question for the moment. Instead, she said, “I found it in the canoe right next to Neil’s body.”
“And the police have it now?”
“They do. I didn’t touch it. I just took that photo of it, left the knife right where it was, and called the police.”
“Well,” Artie said, “then they may already know where it came from, and who it probably belongs to.”
“And who does it probably belong to?” Doc asked with a strained expression, sounding as if he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Actually, it’s pretty easy to trace,” Artie said, and he held up his phone, showing Doc the photo Candy had sent to him. “It’s a Civil War–era bowie knife. Decent shape. Oak handle with this very nice handguard. I believe it came with its own leather scabbard, when it was first delivered.”
“And how do you know all that, about this particular knife?” Doc asked, tilting his head toward the image of the weapon.
“Because of these initials here on the handle.” Artie pointed with his pinky. “S.S.”
“S.S.?” Doc’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “That can’t be right.”
Candy turned to her father. “It’s true, Dad. I saw it myself. In fact, it’s the first thing I noticed.” She looked back at Artie. “I don’t suppose those initials refer to the person I think they do.”
/> “None other than Silas Sykes,” Artie confirmed. “That old scoundrel and pirate who lived around here a hundred and fifty years or so ago. I know, because I researched the provenance of this item myself.”
The revelation surprised Candy. “You did? When was this?”
Artie shifted in his chair. “Two or three years ago, after you found that treasure box buried out at Crawford’s Berry Farm. After everything that happened with that box—the gold and the deeds and everything else—there was a surge of interest in collectible items once belonging to Silas Sykes. Their value went up quite a bit. Verifiable personal items belonging to him or items with some historical significance were the most sought after, of course.” He paused, swallowed. “The bulk of the interest came from a certain local individual. A collector of these sorts of things—mostly knives.”
“So you’re saying you helped purchase this item for him or her?” Candy asked.
Artie’s eyes were dark beads as he looked across the table at her. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. That’s why we have to contact the police.”
“And who might this certain local collector of antique knives be?” Doc asked warily.
Sighing, Artie said, “It’s Hutch Milbright.”
THIRTY
“We already had it ID’d, so we know all about Hutch Milbright and that knife you found,” Chief Darryl Durr told Candy in a guarded tone an hour and a half later as they stood in a hospital corridor outside Neil’s room. Neil wasn’t currently inside, though, as he was being wheeled away on a gurney for a CT scan. “We appreciate Mr. Groves’s call, of course, and the details he provided, but it just confirmed what we already knew.”
A man in his late fifties, Chief Durr had been with the Cape Willington Police Department for more than twenty years. Most of that time had passed with few major incidents, but this recent spate of murders in the village had taken their toll on him. His close-cropped steel gray hair had lost some of its steel, going mostly white, and the crags around the corners of his eyes and mouth had deepened. Never an ebullient person, he looked decidedly weary today, as if he’d been up most of the night—which he probably had—but she could see the determination in his firmly set mouth and razor-sharp gaze.
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