Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  “Is this all your luggage?” he asked, indicating my suitcase and carry-all.

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  Smiling, he hefted the heavy bag with surprising ease and swung the carry-all over his shoulder. “Right this way, then. Just follow me.”

  We walked to the parking lot, where an old Subaru that served as the island’s taxi was parked.

  Once inside, he turned to speak to me.

  “Do you want to go directly to the house? Or would you like a tour of the island first?”

  I smiled. “To the house. I believe there are some groceries waiting to be put away.”

  “Okay,” he said, slightly disappointed. “But if you want a tour some other time, here’s my card.”

  He handed me a beat-up business card as he backed the car out of the parking lot.

  I grinned. Storm Island was small … only about five miles long and two miles wide. The ride to Hettie’s house would only take a few minutes and, as with everything else, the cab fare and tip had already been taken care of. I leaned back and enjoyed the ride.

  It wasn’t long before the manor house appeared on the horizon, silhouetted against the evening sky. Stately, it was perched on a lofty outcropping of black rock and, in the waning light, appeared stern and unyielding.

  Large and imposing, the house rambled a bit, architecture sometimes mismatched due to various expansions over the years. But, curiously, the result somehow meshed, making the structure’s eccentricities seem trivial. A large, inviting wraparound porch completed the look and, in my mind’s eye, I could see it filled with people lounging on white wicker furniture, drinks in hand, enjoying the warm salt air.

  “Here we are,” chirped Matty. “Stormview Manor.”

  I stared at the manse, my eyes focused on the tower room. Its stone walls looked lonely and cold and my heart filled with dread. The widow’s walk surrounding it seemed barren and devoid of life.

  I tore my eyes away and looked down to the second story. Its windows were dark, too, yet I could almost feel them staring back at me … daring me to enter.

  “I’m staying at the carriage house,” I said quickly as Matty approached the property.

  “Oh, okay,” he responded, stopping the car and turning toward the back driveway.

  The carriage house sat at the bottom of the hill, behind the main structure. It was small, just one story, and had been converted to a guest cottage in the late 1940s. Though made of stone, in contrast to Stormview Manor it presented a warm and welcoming appearance. Looking at it, I immediately felt as if I were coming home.

  Matty helped me with my bags and the three banana boxes full of groceries that had been left on the porch.

  Afterward, I thanked him and assured him I had his card and would be calling for that island tour. Finally, satisfied, he left.

  Alone in the carriage house, I looked around.

  Nothing had changed.

  It was, basically, like a one-bedroom apartment. The entryway opened onto a large living space, complete with wood-burning fireplace. The room was furnished with a comfortable, well-used leather couch and chair. An oriental carpet adorned the highly polished hardwood floor. Brass lamps with Tiffany shades sat on end tables.

  Adjacent to the living room was a dining area and kitchen. While small, the kitchen was well-equipped with top-of-the-line appliances.

  Off the living room, through a curved doorway, were the bedroom and bath. I hesitated a moment before entering, remembering the last time I had been there with my mother and how we’d laughed. Feeling tears begin to well in my eyes, I wondered if I could really do this. Maybe I’d be better off calling Matty and asking him to come get me and take me back to the mainland where I could hop on a jet to L.A. There was nothing to make me stay here. I wasn’t a prisoner, after all, was I?

  But, still, my father would be disappointed and, probably, would see to it that I was ejected permanently from the residency program. So, in a sense, I was a prisoner. I would have to tough it out … get through this sojourn on Storm and then return to my normal life.

  The bedroom, like the rest of the house, looked the same … big brass bed in the middle with a wicker easy chair with matching table in the corner under a Tiffany floor lamp.

  I bit my bottom lip as memories raced through my mind … my mother sitting in that chair, writing in her journal … or standing in front of the closet asking me to pick out a frock for her to wear that day.

  I let the tears flow freely then, acknowledging how much I missed and loved her.

  Taking a deep breath, I went to the bathroom and washed my face.

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I made a decision. No more strolls down memory lane for me. If I were to stay here, I knew I had to reject the past and look to the future. And, anyway, it was time to put the groceries away and unpack.

  It didn’t take me long to sort through the banana boxes. There were, of course, all the staples – bread, butter, milk, juice, etcetera. Aunt Hettie was nothing if not thorough. What surprised me were some of the treats she included … a carton full of lobster mac’n cheese, some lovely parmesan-encrusted haddock fillets, a pound of fresh scallops, and other goodies. I decided to have the mac’n cheese that evening since it would just need reheating and I spooned some of the concoction into a bowl and placed it in the microwave on reheat.

  I was about to sit down to eat when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Kate! It’s me, Aunt Hettie. You getting settled in okay?”

  “Yes, Auntie. Everything’s fine. Thanks for the food.”

  “No problem. I called to let you know that there may be some weather headed your way tonight. I’m not sure how bad it will be, but you know the least amount of wind can cause an outage on the island. But don’t worry if the power goes out. We had a portable generator installed at the back of the house a couple of years ago. I told Horace to make sure it’s full of gas. The instructions to get the beast started are tacked to the wall next to it.”

  “Horace?”

  “Yes, Horace … you remember him, don’t you … the caretaker?”

  “Horace Hatchett? He’s still alive?”

  Aunt Hettie laughed. “Yes, he’s still kicking and he will be by in the morning to meet with you so you two can coordinate everything. I know he’s old, but he’s reliable and knows the house like the back of his hand.

  “And, also, there’s a cord of seasoned wood out back, just before the tree line. You might want to bring some in before the rain starts.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  “Are you okay? Taking your pills?”

  “Yes, Auntie. I’m fine. And the pills are okay, too. They don’t make me sleepy or anything.”

  “Good. Well, I’ve got to go. Raoul and I are going out tonight. He’s leaving for the Continent tomorrow.”

  “Have a good time and wish him a good flight for me.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. And, you call me anytime, especially if things get to you. All right?”

  “Yes, Auntie. And, thanks.”

  “Oh, one more thing. The landline phone service only supports outgoing calls within the State of Maine. So, if you want to get in touch, use your cell.”

  “Okay, Auntie. I’ll do that.”

  “Good. Don’t push yourself getting the house ready. Relax and take long walks on the beach. That, more than anything, will revive your spirit. And remember, I’m only a couple hours away. If you need me, I’ll come. If not, we’ll see you on the first of July.”

  We chatted for a minute longer, then she hung up. My dinner had grown cold, so I put it back in the nuker for another ninety seconds. While I waited, I glanced out the window.

  She was right. The sky was rapidly filling with dark clouds and the wind had picked up. I decided to check on the generator and bring in some wood right after I finished eating. A fire burning brightly in the fireplace would be a welcome addition should the storm break soon.

  It was dark b
y the time I finished eating. I found a lantern under the kitchen sink and took it, along with a couple of canvas log carriers, outside. I located the generator, read the instructions, and checked to make sure Horace had, indeed, filled it with gas. He had.

  Then I made my way to the woodpile and started filling the log carriers with dry wood. I was almost finished when I saw it.

  A light shining through the trees, flickering and glowing softly.

  I turned and stared at it. It was coming from somewhere deep within the forest behind the carriage house. The light resembled that of a flame from a candle or oil lamp. I raised my lantern in the direction of the light, hoping to see where it was coming from, but the lantern wasn’t strong enough to reveal the little flame’s secrets.

  Mesmerized, I dropped the log carriers and, holding the lantern out ahead of me, began to walk into the woods.

  A Startling Discovery

  IT WAS NOT an easy walk. The woods were dense and there was no discernable trail. Branches painfully snapped in my face, and, more than once, I tripped over a root or some other sort of vegetation. Once, I thought I saw the eyes of an animal glowing in the dark, but they quickly vanished.

  After about fifteen minutes, the rain started. Gentle at first, it wasn’t long before I was shivering with the cold. Yet, still, the light beckoned me onward.

  My hair was now plastered to my head and my sweatshirt clung to my chest. I knew I was at risk of catching a cold or worse if I stayed out in this, but I’d already gone too far. I had to find out where that light was coming from.

  Finally, I stumbled into a clearing, almost dropping my lantern. As I caught my balance and gazed around, I was surprised to find, situated in the center, a strange stone turret or silo. The building was round with a pointed, thatched roof and was approximately the size of a guard house at some ancient castle in Germany or the Alsace. The flickering light was coming from a window located about ten feet from the ground.

  I approached cautiously, not wanting to alarm any occupants. Slowly, I circled the structure, running my hands over its cobblestone surface, trying to find some sort of entryway.

  But there was none.

  Frustrated, I stood on my tippy toes, trying to see into the window, but it was too high.

  By this time, I had forgotten all about the cold and the rain. All I wanted was to find out what or who was inside this place.

  I looked around the clearing and saw an old wooden box, discarded in what looked like a trash heap. Calculating its height, I dragged it over to the silo, noting that the wood was wet and looked like it might be rotten. However, I was willing to take a chance.

  I positioned the box directly under the window and, gingerly, put one foot on it, transferring about half of my weight.

  It held.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped up with my other foot. When my full weight was on the box, I heard a slight crack, but still it held.

  I stretched, holding my lantern high. I could just see into the bottom of the window. Most of the room was dark, the only light coming from an oil lamp that sat on the corner of an ornate Queen Anne-style table or desk. An ink well with feather quill sat next to the lamp.

  I strained to see what else was in the room, paying no mind to a second ominous crack coming from the box I stood on.

  I leaned closer to the window, my nose touching the pane.

  In an instant, the light from the oil lamp went out. At the same time, one more crack came from the box, this one loud and defiant. The wooden slat broke in two and my ankle turned as I fell heavily to the forest floor. As I hit the ground, I instinctively reached out with my hands to brace my fall, carelessly tossing the lantern aside.

  I lay still for a few moments, catching my breath. Then, I sat up and extricated my foot from the broken crate, palpating my ankle as I tried to assess what, if any, damage I’d done.

  My mind flooded with relief. My ankle wasn’t broken ... maybe twisted or sprained, but not broken. I looked around, trying to locate my lantern and, to my dismay, saw it lying next to a rock, smashed.

  The wind howled through the trees as I sat in the mud trying to figure out which direction led back to the carriage house. I saw no lights anywhere and assumed that, as Hettie had warned, the wind had knocked out the power. I carefully got to my feet, wondering if my ankle would bear weight. Luckily it did, and I hobbled over to a branch lying on the ground and picked it up. It was sturdy and would work as a crutch as I made my way back home.

  I glanced around again, then, taking a guess as to the direction to the carriage house, began to make my way through the dark woods.

  It was about twenty minutes before I stumbled out of the forest onto a deserted gravel road. I was soaked to the skin and freezing and had to acknowledge that I had walked in the wrong direction. Gazing around, I hoped to catch sight of a porchlight or, at the very least, a street lamp.

  But all was dark.

  Assuming I was on one of the roads that traversed the island, I began walking in the direction I thought was south, toward Stormview Manor. I hadn’t made it far when the sound of a vehicle rapidly approaching from behind caused me to leap off the road onto the shoulder.

  A flat-bed truck whizzed past.

  I waved my arms and yelled, but the driver apparently hadn’t seen me. Feeling dejected, I stepped back onto the road and continued on my trek. A moment later, I was surprised when the same truck reappeared, this time coming in the opposite direction.

  The driver slammed on the brakes and jumped from the cab.

  “You all right?” he yelled, striding toward me.

  I knew I probably looked like a drowned cat, but I didn’t care. As he neared, I worried that, with my luck, he would turn out to be a serial killer. But, then, beggars can’t be choosers and, given my condition, even a serial killer looked good.

  The man was wearing a bright-yellow slicker, jeans, and rubber muck boots. Probably a local, I thought as I hobbled forward to meet him.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed, putting his arm around my waist to help me walk to the truck. “What the hell are you doing out in this weather?”

  I leaned on him gratefully as I climbed into the passenger seat. Once I was settled inside, he grabbed a blanket from behind the seat and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled as I pulled the blanket tight and wiped my face clear of the rainwater that was dripping from my hair.

  The man slipped into the driver’s side, turned on the ignition, then reached up and switched on the cab’s interior light.

  I looked over at him. He seemed strangely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He had rakish good looks, piercing blue eyes, and dark, curly hair. I guessed he was around my age or a few years older.

  “So,” he said, looking me over. “Who is it I have the pleasure of saving tonight?”

  I smiled weakly. “I’m Kate … Katherine Pomeroy. I’m staying at Stormview in the carriage house.”

  “Katydid?” he asked, smiling broadly. “You that skinny kid I used to tease?”

  I looked at him, puzzled, then suddenly it all fell into place. “Jeremy? Jeremy Bradshaw?”

  He laughed. “One and the same. It’s been a long time. What brings you back here? I heard you were a doctor out in California or someplace.”

  “I am ... or, I was. I’m on a sort of leave of absence. I’m here to help Aunt Hettie get the manor house ready for the season. I just arrived this afternoon.”

  “Just this afternoon? And already in need of rescue? You don’t waste any time, Katy! And, just what were you doing out in the woods in this weather, anyway?”

  My mind raced for an answer. For some unknown reason, I was strangely reluctant to tell him about the little house.

  “I thought I saw a dog,” I lied. “I tried to catch him, but tripped and broke my lantern and twisted my ankle. Then I think the power at the carriage house went out and, somehow, I got turned around and walked in the wrong direction.”

  “
A dog?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “Yes, a dog,” I answered in a firm, steady voice.

  Jeremy nodded. “Okay, a dog.”

  He gave me a quick smile, turned off the interior light, and put the truck in gear. “Let’s get you home and out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

  Jeremy

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long to get home. Like I said before, Storm is a small island. The carriage house was dark when we pulled into the drive, attesting to the power outage I’d mentioned. Jeremy told me to stay in the truck while he got the generator going.

  I watched him disappear into the darkness, thinking about the last time I’d seen him. It was that final summer, a few days before my mother’s death. We’d been at the beach building a sand castle. Jeremy and his younger brother, Tom, had been there, too. Tom was my age and he sat down with us, helping with the castle, but Jeremy, thirteen, preferred to play a game of touch football with his friends. I’d watched them play for a while, Jeremy by far the best athlete of the group.

  My thoughts were interrupted when I saw the lights go on inside the cottage. Jeremy returned to the truck and opened the passenger side door.

  “Let me help you,” he said, offering me his arm.

  Once inside, he ordered me to get out of my wet clothes while he went back outside to get wood to start a fire. Meekly, I did as he asked and stripped off my wet jeans, sweatshirt, and underwear and put on a flannel nightgown and the big terrycloth robe that was hanging in the bedroom closet for guests. I put some slipper-socks on my feet and returned to the living room where he was at work, building the fire.

  He turned and looked at me as I entered the room. “Lucky, old Horace remembered to stock you up with fat wood,” he said, setting the fire ablaze. “Sit down here on the rug and get warm.”

  Again, I did as he said. Nodding, he got up and walked to the kitchen. He came back a minute later with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.