I ran my hands through my hair. “I can’t just walk in to the police station. Detective Rosato makes me nervous. What if they want to question me? I have to dance in Ondine. I can’t get arrested.”
“Or Lorel,” Verity said. “She makes a lot more sense as a suspect than you.”
“True.”
We watched the red dots at the end of the dock. The two men were still there, talking.
“What if the police ask where we got the phone?” Verity said.
“I need advice. I’m going to call Bronwyn.” I dialed.
Bronwyn picked up.
“Hi Bronwyn, are you at work?”
“Nope. At home relaxing with a forensics textbook. How about you?”
“Verity and I aren’t far from your house. Can we stop by?”
“Sure. I’ll be on the porch.”
Chapter 31
Verity pulled up to the curb in front of the Denbys’ sprawling red Cape. Bronwyn’s dad was a carpenter who’d added on to the house with the arrival of each new child. The driveway was jammed with beaters that belonged to Bronwyn’s four teenage brothers.
We climbed the stairs to the porch, where Bronwyn sat holding a mug. Video game explosions blasted from a screened window.
“Hi, want a drink?” Bronwyn still wore her Mystic Bay Police outfit.
“No, thanks,” Verity said.
I shook my head no. We settled on sagging wicker chairs ringed around a table cluttered with citronella candles, books, and newspapers. A floor lamp spilled a circle of light onto Bronwyn’s chair, the cord looped over the windowsill from inside.
“Did you just get off work?” I asked.
“Not too long ago. Stuff’s happening.” She straightened a stack of paperbacks on the cup-ringed coffee table.
Verity looked from me to Bronwyn. “Patrick Yardley stuff?”
Bronwyn frowned and shook her head.
“Stuff about the girl I found?”
Bronwyn’s shoulders relaxed. The Patrick stuff made her nervous. Obviously, I didn’t want to ask her to do anything against her vows or whatever it was with the police. But I had nowhere else to turn for help.
“Sounds like someone has stepped forward to ID the body of the girl you found.” Bronwyn smiled. “She’s coming to the station tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I said.
“Won’t it be awful to view the body?” Verity said.
Bronwyn exhaled. “Well, the body’s at the medical examiner’s office. Anyway, viewing the body would be problematic. When they’ve been in the water they deteriorate pretty quickly.”
Verity clutched her throat.
“Viewing of the body is often done with photos now, not the actual body. They got photos before she got, er, too unrecognizable. And we were able to get photos of the tattoos. Hopefully they can get an ID, then they can verify with dental records.”
The way Bronwyn said “we” when she talked about the police made me hesitate. How on earth would I bring up the phone? Still, my heart rose. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.”
Bronwyn smiled. “There’s something else. Remember I told you how the investigators withhold information, so they have a detail that only a legitimate friend or family member would know?”
I nodded.
“Well, the investigators have been playing it very close to the vest, but I found out. The girl had another tattoo. A semicolon.”
“A semicolon?” Verity said.
“People who struggle with addiction get it. Or people who tried suicide.”
“What does a semicolon have to do with suicide?” I said.
“A semicolon’s not a period,” Bronwyn said. “A period’s a full stop. A semicolon means you continue.”
The video game battled with the sound of crickets chirping. The microwave beeped and footsteps thudded upstairs.
“That’s so sad,” Verity said.
Bronwyn again adjusted the stack of paperbacks. I’d never felt uncomfortable around her, but now I felt like she was on one side of a wall and I on the other.
“It’s Lorel, isn’t it?” I said. “You heard something about Lorel.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “I shouldn’t even shake my head, Allie. It’s hard because I shouldn’t be telling you anything.”
I leaned toward her. “But what if we could help?”
“How?” Bronwyn crossed her arms.
“What if we found Patrick Yardley’s phone? Huh?” Verity said.
Bronwyn bit her lip. “Oh, boy. Okay. I’m not even going to ask. If you guys have anything that could help with the investigation, bring it to the police right away. Not me. The police. Actually, call and don’t touch anything.” She gave me a level look. “Or is it too late?”
“We—” Verity began.
Bronwyn winced and held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. There’s something called the chain of evidence.” Her voice was urgent. “Please tell me you didn’t take anything from the crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” I was thinking fast. No. Not from Stellene’s yacht. From Miranda. Was that a crime scene?
I shot another warning look at Verity.
“The boat where Patrick died, right?” I kept my voice neutral. “Or Stellene’s yacht?”
“They’re treating the boat and the yacht as the crime scene. We don’t know enough about what happened that night,” Bronwyn said.
“I told the guy, Budwitz.” I tried to act relaxed. “Nothing happened. We were all drunk on Stellene’s champagne.”
“Just as long as you didn’t take anything from the rubber boat or the yacht.” Bronwyn held my eye.
I was starting to think that Bronwyn knew a lot more about what was going on than she was telling.
“What’s this ‘chain of evidence’ thing that’s so important?” I said.
“It means that it must be very clear that evidence was not tampered with or moved from its original discovery point without meticulous recordkeeping.” Bronwyn sounded like she was quoting from her textbook. “Otherwise it could get evidence thrown out of court.” Her eyes bored into mine.
“Okay.” The phone was evidence, I was sure of it. Had I just messed up evidence that could identify Patrick’s killer? And prove Lorel’s innocence? My mouth went dry.
“So was that why you stopped by? To talk cop shop?” Bronwyn said.
With a pang I realized the only times I’d called Bronwyn this summer were when I had a crime question.
I thought fast. “Actually, no. You know how I told you there’s a German soprano singing in Ondine? There’s no German soprano. It’s really—”
“Get ready.” Verity bounced in her seat.
“Eden!”
“No way!” Bronwyn beamed. “Are you kidding? I love her music.”
“I had to tell you,” I said. “I’ll make sure you get a comp ticket at the door for the premiere Thursday night, okay?”
Bronwyn was still smiling as we said good night. Her smile made me hate my lying self.
Crickets kicked up a hellish chorus as Verity and I returned to the Tank.
“Allie, does this mean we have to return the phone to Miranda?” Verity turned the key.
I nodded. “But for now, let’s keep it in the glove box until I figure out a plan to put it back.”
“Without those creepy mob guys seeing us,” Verity added.
I ran my fingers through my hair. “And get the detectives to Miranda.”
“Without getting caught.”
I slumped against the door. “Without getting caught.”
Chapter 32
Wednesday, July 8
The next morning, Lorel curled up on the couch as I stretched on Aunt Gully’s braided living room rug. She was dressed but had wrapped her old comforter around her shoulders.
I realized that with everything that had happened, Lorel and I still hadn’t talked about that night on Model Sailor. It took a few minutes for me to figure out how to begin. Talking with Lore
l was like using muscles that had stiffened from disuse.
“Lorel, do you remember the popping noises? After we went to bed on Stellene’s yacht?”
Lorel shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything. I slept like a rock, got up, walked to the back of the yacht, saw Patrick lying in the RHI. I don’t remember much after that except for Chief Brooks. How disappointed he looked when he asked about partying with Patrick Yardley.”
I didn’t know what to say. I sat next to her and rubbed her arm.
“I’ve got to get back to Boston. I know Dr. Strange and Aunt Gully wanted me to stay and rest, but I’m fine.” Lorel didn’t say it, but I knew “get back to Boston” meant “get away from here.”
“Will you come to my opening night tomorrow?” I asked.
Her surprised expression told me she’d forgotten it.
I lowered my eyes. It was too early in the morning to feel this disappointed.
“Did you see the gun in the boat with Patrick?” I couldn’t remember seeing it. “Was it the same gun you all had touched?
Lorel winced. “Yes. I don’t know if it was the exact same gun, but it looked just like it. I didn’t pick it up.”
“That’s weird.” I stood and paced. “If you were the killer, wouldn’t you drop the gun overboard? Nobody would find it. Actually, why not untie Patrick’s RHI altogether? The boat would drift away.”
Lorel threw the comforter off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She stalked down the hallway. “I’ve got to prep for phone meetings.”
The killer had left the murder weapon behind. The killer shot Patrick and left—or went back to their bed on Model Sailor and pretended to be surprised in the morning.
Through Aunt Gully’s big picture window I saw a Mystic Bay Police cruiser. I darted to the window. It parked in front of Fast Times, the house next to the breakwater.
Oh, no. Were they going to report Lorel’s fight with Patrick Yardley on the breakwater at Kiddie Beach?
“Let’s roll, Allie!” Aunt Gully called from the kitchen.
We gathered our things and left the house. Aunt Gully cast a quick look at the police car as we got in the van and headed to the Mermaid, but said nothing.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought that the answer to Patrick’s murder was on his phone. The answer to the question that churned in my mind.
Why did Patrick come out to Model Sailor that night?
* * *
Car horns blared on Pearl Street as a giant news truck with a satellite dish tried to squeeze down the narrow street. Now what?
“Early for a traffic jam,” Aunt Gully said as we went into the Mermaid’s kitchen.
Hector turned from the steamer. “Have you heard? Eden’s been brought in for questioning about the death of Patrick Yardley!”
“News trucks, tourists, Eden fans. It’s a perfect storm of traffic,” Hilda said.
“I’m going to get some lobsters from the shed,” Hector said as he stepped out the door.
“Don’t even think of going up there!” Hilda called after him. Aunt Gully went back outside to hang up her American flag.
My phone buzzed with a text from Bronwyn. Eden’s at Plex. Stellene told cops that Eden was spooked and may have mistaken Patrick for a stalker.
I read the text out loud.
Hilda scoffed. “Since when does Stellene tell the cops what to do? And how does Stellene know what happened on the yacht?”
I picked up a knife and helped Hilda chop cabbage for cole slaw.
“I wonder about Stellene,” I said. “I heard she was buying drugs from Patrick.”
Hilda shook her head. “Forget drugs. It was probably an affair. It’s Patrick Yardley we’re talking about.”
And Ken Jackson had told me he’d seen an RHI like Patrick’s visiting Model Sailor.
Hilda’s voice faded as I considered. Maybe Stellene had an affair with Patrick, but wouldn’t it be more likely that Tinsley would? They were closer in age. But Tinsley’s been ill and she’s recovering from a kidney transplant. She could still fall for him. What had Henry said? She followed me like a puppy … Maybe she’d followed Patrick.…
Hilda’s knife hit the wooden cutting board with an especially hard thwack. “Well, she has people to do everything for her. What was her assistant’s name? Zoe? Maybe she did the drug buying for Stellene.”
Hilda was back to the drugs. “Zoe Parker?” I couldn’t imagine her doing something as sordid as buying drugs. “Doesn’t seem the type.” But she had, despite her fancy title, done lots of errands for Stellene. Buying vintage clothes for a photo shoot. Chauffeuring Eden and Henry.
As I worked, I ran the scenario concocted by Stellene over and over in my mind: Eden thought Patrick was a stalker and shot him. But no matter how many times I visualized this scenario, it didn’t hold water. Eden had been drunker than any of us.
I pictured the blanket and pillow in the saloon. Henry had slept there. If Eden went to the saloon to get the gun, she would’ve seen Henry. Wouldn’t it make more sense to wake him for protection, instead of silently taking the gun and shooting Patrick on her own?
I froze, knife in midair. What if Eden went to the saloon and woke Henry? Would he have shot Patrick for her?
A guy who had criminal-justice training probably wouldn’t grab a gun and shoot a complete stranger. Or would he?
The blur I’d seen pass my window on the yacht. Eden was blond. Henry was blond.
I shook my head. It still didn’t make sense that Henry or Eden would shoot Patrick. If they’d confronted him—especially with a gun—Patrick probably would’ve left.
Probably.
I was itching to find some answers. With a shock I remembered Ondine. Would Eden be freed in time for rehearsal? Opening night was tomorrow.
Verity slipped in through the screen door. “Allie, I’ve got actual adult supervision at the shop. Let’s make that delivery.”
“Delivery?” Hilda said.
“For Henry Small. The top hat? Remember? The one I forgot?” Verity said.
Aunt Gully bustled back in.
“Is it okay if I take a break?” I said.
Aunt Gully looked at the clipboard with the schedule. “Looks like Aggie’s coming in. Go on, you two.”
I stripped off my plastic gloves and hung up my apron.
“If you see Eden, you’d better let Hector know,” Hilda said.
“Will do.”
Verity and I got in the Tank. “I’ve still got to figure out how to get the phone to the police,” I said.
“Well, while you plan, I’ve got to give this top hat to Henry,” Verity said. “Now, where did you say he was staying?”
* * *
After ten minutes of excruciatingly tangled traffic, Verity and I pulled up to Mac’s house. She nodded at the red barn, freshly renovated from the tip of the rooster weathervane to the double garage doors and swaths of golden lilies at the foundation.
“So that’s where he’s hiding out.” She sighed. “All rustic and romantic.”
“I wonder if Henry’s at the Plex waiting for Eden.” I tapped my feet.
“You’re so jumpy,” Verity said. “The cops aren’t interested in you.”
“I’ll believe it when they catch Patrick’s killer.”
“Well, they’re doing their jobs.” She patted my knee. “And they aren’t going for Lorel. That’s good news.”
“It’s only a matter of time. There was a cop at Fast Times this morning,” I said.
“Sheesh. Well, for now let’s just focus on handsome Henry.”
“You’re relentless.”
“I want to make sure he gets his hat. From me. Personally.” She smoothed gloss over her full lips. “Something to remember me by.”
“I hate to tell you this, Verity, but I don’t think he’ll have any trouble remembering Mystic Bay.” We got out of the car.
Mac’s red Mini was in the driveway. “I’m going to let Mac know we’re here.” I knoc
ked at the front door, but there was no answer.
We tried the bell at the side door of the red barn/guesthouse, but no one answered there, either. In the backyard, a powerboat bobbed at Mac’s dock. The garden was lush with color, the scent of roses intensified by the heat.
“Guess he’s not here. Should we just leave it?” I said.
“Are you out of your mind!” Verity hugged the box close.
“Hello?” Mac took off headphones as he stepped through the French doors onto the patio. He wore a painter’s smock that was buttoned wrong and splattered by light blue paint. “Oh, hello, Allie.” He pulled the doors shut behind him.
Verity and I crossed the lawn. “Hi, Mac. You remember my friend Verity?”
“Of course. Hello, Verity.” He looked at the paintbrush in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Well, you’ve probably heard about Eden being questioned by the police. What a disaster! Even if they let her go, I don’t know if she’ll be in the best frame of mind for the performance tomorrow.”
“Mac, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Verity and I climbed the steps. I squeezed his arm. “Her role doesn’t require a lot of movement onstage.” Oh my God, what a mess. Eden’s understudy is good, but she’s no Eden. I smiled and spoke with conviction. “Eden’s a pro.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Mac said.
“Sorry to interrupt your painting.” I angled to his side, looking through the French doors.
“Usually it’s so calming but not today.” He stepped toward the next set of French doors. “Can I get you something from the kitchen? A beverage?”
“No, thanks,” Verity said. “So, is Henry here?”
“He stepped into the studio a few minutes ago when I was painting.” Mac’s forehead wrinkled. “Suddenly he said he wasn’t feeling well. Said he needed to go for a run. Do something physical. Probably all the stress.”
“Oh, too bad.” Verity pulled me away. “We’ll come back.”
As we crossed the lawn and went back to the car, I threw a glance back at Mac. He waved and I waved back. I got the feeling he wanted to be sure we left.
Verity and I got in the car. “We’ll try later. Now what?” Verity pulled from the curb and I turned the radio to the all news-station.
A voice with a New York accent said, “Sources confirm that police expect a break in the case of a body discovered by a lobster crew in Mystic Bay, Connecticut. They report that an identification will be made shortly. The young woman has become known as the Girl with the Pitchfork Tattoo because of her distinctive tattoo. And now to the sports desk—”
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