by Sarah Graves
“Hi, Mom,” he said, sliding a short stack from the platter onto his plate. Then he got a good look at me—bumped, bruised, et cetera—and his eyes widened.
“Never mind,” I told him quietly, and he went back to his plate and newspaper obediently, not much to my surprise. We’d been together a long time, Sam and I; he’d seen me worse, and vice versa.
Bella clucked worriedly at me, but she also played it reasonably cool. Only her eyes threatened ice packs, poultices, and who knew what other old-timey home remedies, any and all of which I meant to put up with, no complaining, right after breakfast.
“Owie,” said Ephraim, pointing at my forehead.
That’s for sure. “Hey, buddy,” I greeted my grandson, resisting the urge to sweep him from his high chair and dance him around the kitchen. Just being here with him at all was such a . . .
Well. A gift was what it was. But lifting him would’ve hurt too much—along the way I’d pulled my shoulder, probably as I was trying not to drown—and anyway, he was already busy again, hurling toast crusts and chortling each time Bella snatched one up off the floor.
“Good morning!” said Mika as she came in, shimmering through the prism of my sudden tears; it was good to be here.
Mika was wearing black slacks, another of those impossibly crisp white blouses of hers, and makeup that made her look even more like a blooming rose than she did without it. At seven a.m. she already had her glossy black hair swept up into a sleek twist and her satchel over her shoulder.
“You look great,” Sam said appreciatively.
Smiling in return, she plucked a toast crust off her little boy’s high chair tray, the way she did every morning, and ate it while making a lot of exaggerated yum-yum sounds as he watched, astonished.
The way he did every morning. Bella handed Mika a cup of coffee, light and sweet, the way she did every morning.
Then she delivered my father’s pills with a glass of juice and supervised his swallowing them before starting on his pancakes.
The way he did . . . oh, you get the idea. “Now you eat every bit of that, old man,” said Bella affectionately, and he bent to comply. On his own he’d have had a delicious breakfast of black coffee, a shot of brandy, and a cigar, and never mind any of the pills.
But like I’ve said, those two loved each other a lot. “And you,” Bella told Sam unnecessarily, “drink that juice. And remember to take a sweatshirt to work with you. It’s not the middle of summer anymore, you know.”
I had no idea what any of us would do without Bella, or without my dad puttering around the house, either—if, for example, they moved into senior housing or got a place on their own.
But that didn’t change the fact that we were so crowded here, we could barely move, and it was about to get worse.
“Okay, I’m out of here,” said Mika. “See you at the Moose.”
It seemed her morning sickness had passed, maybe even for good this time. She’d volunteered to open the shop this morning so Ellie and I could catch our breaths.
Which reminded me that I also didn’t see how we’d manage without Mika. Or Sam. For one thing, I wasn’t about to start mowing that big yard, and Wade wasn’t, either.
At the door Mika paused. “Sam’s got some more news for you, by the way,” she told me with mischief in her eyes. “Bella and your dad have, too, if I’m not mistaken.”
I must’ve looked puzzled.
“The four of us had a family conference about everything that’s going on.” Her expansive gesture took in the whole house. “Last night, after you and Wade went up to bed,” she said before heading out the door with a jaunty wave.
By then Sam had forked up more pancakes and was covering them with maple syrup. Wade poured what was left of the coffee into his thermos and started a new pot; my dad pried a few blueberries out of his own pancakes and popped them into his great-grandson’s mouth.
Really, I didn’t see how I could do without any of it, and this time the tears really did threaten to fall. I turned to Bella.
“What did Mika mean just now?” I demanded. “And how come you guys had a family conference without me?”
But then, I hadn’t been exactly available for consultation lately, had I? So they’d come to a decision without my input.
“Jake. Mika’s right, there’s something you need to know,” Wade said, turning from putting his lunch pail together: bread, cheese, an apple, a chunk of chocolate. The same things he took every day.
“That’s right,” said Bella, while Sam beamed brightly at me and my father looked smug.
“Your stepmother and I have come to a decision,” my father said. “We’ve told Wade about it already.”
My heart sank. “Go on, just get it over with,” I said, looking from his face to Bella’s and back again. “If you two are going to go live somewhere else, you might as well just tell me so I can—”
Cry my eyes out. Wander around this big old house alone. Try and try again to get used to living life without—
“Go?” Bella looked shocked. “Why, don’t be silly, child. What in the world ever gave you the foolish notion that we’re going anywhere?”
Relief touched me briefly. But then I realized that must mean—
Sam. I peered questioningly at him. “I’ve been so busy, I didn’t know you were even looking for your own place, but I guess that you and Mika must’ve found a—”
New home, I’d been about to finish, but he interrupted. “What? Ma, no, calm down. You’ve gotten the wrong idea.”
“Idea!” shouted Ephraim, flinging away his spoon. Sam retrieved it, gave it back with a blueberry on it, then went on.
“Ma, I’m moving all the lawn equipment that’s in the yard to one of the warehouses out at the boatyard.”
“Oh,” I said weakly as he continued.
“They’re giving me the space in return for keeping the grass cut and the snow plowed out there, and so on.”
I blinked. This wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. “But, Sam, that’s only going to get rid of all the machinery you’ve got stashed here in the yard, so I don’t see what good . . .”
“Also,” said Wade, “we’re going to be moving some things around a little in here. And,” he added, “we’ll be moving people.”
My dad and Bella nodded together. “That’s right, we’re moving downstairs to Sam and Mika’s room,” Bella said, looking pleased.
From their large suite on the third floor, she meant; a bathroom, two bedrooms, and—
“And the kids are moving upstairs,” she finished. “Your father and I decided they need the space more than we do.”
But, but... “What about your painting studio?” I asked my dad. “Canvases and easels, brushes and turpentine and those big windows—”
The south-facing ones, full of all that great light. But he just patted my hand reassuringly with his gnarled, mottled one.
“Don’t you worry about that any, my girl. I’ve been wishing for a man-cave . . .”
Once upon a time, his idea of a man-cave had had bomb-making stuff in it; now he gave the phrase an obligatory ironic twist, but I could tell that the idea of a place all his own had really captured his imagination.
“And Wade says he’ll build me one out in the yard once all the machines are gone,” he said.
It was a big yard. There’d be plenty of room. “With,” he added, “a woodstove, big windows, even some skylights, maybe, and lots of storage.”
“Don’t forget the cutting table for canvas,” said Wade. “And overhead racks for frame pieces, stretchers . . .”
My dad sighed happily at the prospect. “Well, all right, then,” I said, still feeling a little stunned.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all pretty well arranged. You’re sure, though,” I pressed Bella, “that you’re okay with . . .”
Less living space, smaller bathroom. She nodded emphatically as my dad eyed me more closely than before.
“That green sweater looks good on
you,” he remarked.
Something about his tone alerted me. “So?”
“So, go look in the mirror.” He smiled enigmatically at me. I went into the hall and looked at myself in the oval mirror on the wall by the front door.
Dark wavy hair, pale skin, full lips . . . “Oh,” I said softly, recognizing myself.
From my dad’s painting, I mean. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, that the woman whose likeness he’d captured from the old photograph was me. In a certain light, from a certain angle . . .
Through loving eyes. Just then Bob Arnold came in. Still blinking from my discovery, I went back out to the kitchen to hear what he had to say.
“So,” he said, clasping his hands on the table as Bella poured him coffee, “it seems our buddy Lionel woke up this morning feeling chatty. Want to know what he had to say?”
Oh, I did. But: “Are you supposed to tell me?”
In all the upset of the night before, I understood his blabbing a few things. I didn’t want him to get in trouble, though.
“Pfft!” remarked Ephraim, and Bob seemed to agree.
“Jake, if anybody from Augusta wants to come up here and yell at me about anything, they are free to do so.”
He sipped coffee, savoring it. “Entirely free,” he emphasized. “But meanwhile, our little friend Lionel’s been thinking about his options.”
More coffee. Then: “I mean the ones that consist of either telling the whole truth and nothing but or going to prison for a long time. And the way he explains it, the situation was pretty simple.”
Huh. You could’ve fooled me. Bob put his cup down. “Lionel says Amity Jones hated Hadlyme ever since she got sent away to a state-run children’s home after her mother and grandmother died, here in Eastport.”
Yeesh, that didn’t sound like fun. Bob went on: “Over the years she’d watched Hadlyme get successful, stewed over it, then read about him coming to Eastport with his new podcast crew.”
Bella refilled his cup. “She decided that this was her chance to get the revenge she’d been ruminating on for so long,” he continued.
“Because he’d abandoned them all,” I said. “Her mother, Amity herself, and her younger brother—”
Bob nodded. “Right, her baby half brother, Lionel. Hadlyme was the reason behind her mom’s suicide, too. Or murder. Whichever, she blamed Hadlyme for all of it.”
He took a breath. “He hatched a plan, got in touch with Lionel, who had his own reasons for despising Hadlyme, and recruited him.”
“But how?” Wade wanted to know. He’d been standing at the counter listening. “Why would Lionel believe she could make such a wild plan fly?”
Bob shrugged. “She’s a fast talker, in case you hadn’t noticed. Very convincing, and she told him a lot of things he wanted to hear, I guess. She’s a real cop, by the way. She wasn’t faking that.”
Oh, of course she was; had to be. If she hadn’t been, real ones would’ve showed up, wouldn’t they? And Bob was right about her being convincing when she wanted to be.
“None of the others could’ve lifted that antique cannon,” Wade pointed out. “Lionel or Tim probably grabbed it off the porch.”
I’d have snorted, but it hurt too much; my headache was back, and the rest of me didn’t feel so peppy, either.
“Like the Jenny didn’t have enough guns already,” I said. Also, I was pretty sure Amity Jones could’ve lifted the cannon. Before I could say so, though . . .
“And Lionel admitted to me that he took the sword,” added Bob. “From that weapons demonstration you put on, just like you thought. As for Amity, once she had Lionel on board, she recruited Karen Carrolton and Willetta Beck. Only not by persuading them.”
I recalled Willetta Beck’s voice the night before: tremulous, reluctant. Not having fun at all, and even the sturdy Karen Carrolton hadn’t seemed enthusiastic. “She threatened them, didn’t she?”
Bob nodded. “Sure did. And she got Tim to drive that white car around for her, scare you and Ellie, and run Willetta off the road, too, to let her know Amity’s threats were serious. Turns out it’s a rental that Amity paid Tim to drive over here from Bangor.”
“Just the way Hadlyme must’ve paid Tim to bring the Jenny up here for him, from wherever he’d kept her?” Wade guessed aloud.
Although it wasn’t really a guess. I’d told Wade the night before about the fancy galley kitchen in the vessel.
“Yeah.” Bob sounded disgusted. “The boat’s Hadlyme’s. Some rich guy’s toy, it was. Big-time weapons collector on Long Island, he put all those guns in it and rejiggered the helm, then got tired of it, sold it. Hadlyme redid the galley. And Tim Franco . . . man, don’t even get me going about him.”
He finished his coffee. “Yeah, I know, speak no ill of the dead. But for him I’ll make an exception. Although . . .”
“What, Bob?” Bella asked. Tim’s grandmother had been talking to her, and if there was any fact that might make Tim sound not quite so much like a monster, she’d want to know it, I gathered.
Bob shrugged. “Tim had money troubles. I mean.” He held up his hands. “Big ones, not just his usual.”
I must’ve looked skeptical. “Seems he owed money to the IRS. Always got paid cash, hasn’t ever paid income taxes, it turns out.”
That kind of stuff had been my job, long ago in the city. So I understood. “They’ve been hassling him for a while, and now they want all the money or else.” I summed up the way it usually went.
Bob nodded. “Ayuh. They’d brought out the big knives. If he didn’t pay up, he was on his way to the hoosegow. The federal hoosegow. But then Hadlyme found him. Seems he’d called the Chamber of Commerce looking for somebody like Tim who could run a boat.”
“And Hadlyme offered Tim a way out? Paid him to run the Jenny. Then Amity Jones, once she got wind of Timmy, offered him even more?”
Bob nodded sadly. “But at the end, there, it was just that he’d . . . I don’t know. Shooting at us all, people he’d known all his life, then practically committing suicide. Might as well have shot himself, the way he wouldn’t get off that boat until too late.”
At the mention of suicide, I thought again of poor Anna Benoit. We’d never know for sure, of course, but in my opinion she hadn’t been murdered.
From what Willetta Beck had said, it seemed all but certain that the desperate young woman had simply leapt to her death from the Deer Island ferry, leaving her two children to people she must’ve believed—wrongly, of course, and so sadly that I could hardly bear thinking of it—would be able to care for them better.
Bob got up. “I’d say Tim Franco broke under a lot of different pressures, if I believed in that kind of thing,” he said, echoing what I was thinking about Anna. Then, looking around at us:
“Anyway, there were a thousand ways it all could’ve gone wrong for the whole bunch of them,” he said, “and considering how it ended, I guess a few of those things did. Luckily for us.”
“Crazy,” said Sam, folding his newspaper. “None of them could have done the whole thing alone, but together . . .”
Right. Teamwork. Like here in our house. Wade’s eyes met mine, and I knew he thought the same.
“But the parrot,” Bella objected, “how’d they get the stuffed parrot?”
Ephraim’s face scrunched up ominously. Wade stuck a bit of chocolate into the boy’s downturned mouth, which curved up again.
“Ephraim and I were down there that day, weren’t we?” Sam looked at Bella for confirmation.
“On the breakwater for the weapons demo, I mean, and Ephraim might’ve had the parrot then.”
Sure, now he tells me. “None of that explains how Hadlyme got into The Chocolate Moose’s cellar,” said Ellie from the hall. I hadn’t heard her come in.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Bob answered. “Amity had checked out the Moose and picked Jake for the scapegoat after she visited a week earlier.”
He got up from the table, ruffling Ephraim’s h
air affectionately as he went by. “She already knew from Lionel that Henry Hadlyme picked fights wherever he went,” he added.
“And she figured we’d butt heads eventually?”
Bob nodded. “Which you did, exactly like she expected, so you’d look like you had a motive. But if you hadn’t argued with him, well, there was no reason there couldn’t be a change of plan.”
“If she’d had to, she could’ve made me argue with him,” I said. Then added acidly, “By just putting me within fifty feet of him.”
My father had left the room while Wade was rinsing his breakfast things. Now Sam was gathering himself to go off to work and Ephraim was falling asleep, his little head sagged sweetly to one side.
“Your leaving that cellar door unlocked was just the cherry on the cake,” Bob finished. I grimaced guiltily, then winced as my whole face protested this careless movement of banged-up body tissues.
“Lionel lured him down the alley under the awnings, where Amity was waiting. I don’t know what they told him, so don’t ask me. But they got the door open and muscled him inside. We know she’d meant to crowbar it if it was locked, because we found the bar in her cruiser’s trunk.”
He put his cup in the sink. “According to Lionel, Amity was the one who ran Hadlyme through the heart, then perched the parrot on his corpse.”
“So Lionel says,” Bella remarked skeptically, but before Bob could answer, his phone chimed.
“Damn, the little bastard’s escaped,” he said, and moments later he was outside in his squad car, zooming off down the street.
“But where would he go?” Ellie wondered aloud.
She’d brought along some crispy bacon strips that she’d dipped into dark melted chocolate, and I recommend that you sit down before biting into one of these. They’re so good, you’ll fall down, otherwise.
“I mean,” she said, “we’re not like the big city here. It’s not as if he could just call a cab and—”
I thought about it: a young, not very emotionally sturdy guy like Lionel, the father who’d abandoned Lionel’s mother and then Lionel himself . . . and now Lionel was in trouble. So what would the traumatized son of the murdered man want most right now, I wondered.