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

by Linda Watkins

  Finished, I glanced out the window, hoping to see the light from the oil lamp glowing in the dark, but was disappointed. The only light outside was that coming from the moon.

  Sighing, I decided to read for a while, then go to bed early. The salt air from the sail had invigorated but, at the same time, drained me.

  As I sat before the fire, I thought about the conversation I’d had with my dad and wondered some more about Sloane Bradshaw and his relationship with my mother.

  Had she met him on her “night walk” the evening before her death? And, if so, what, if anything, could he reveal about her state of mind?

  I decided I would see if I could find out a little bit more about the man, hoping to eventually meet and confront him. But that could wait until tomorrow. Right now, I was tired. Not ready to turn in for the night, I lay down on the sofa, curled my legs under me, and closed my eyes.

  I awoke abruptly to the sound of something scurrying around in the room behind me. I sat up and reached toward the fireplace, grabbing the poker.

  Clenching it tightly in my fist, I waited.

  It was quiet again.

  Thinking maybe I’d imagined the sound, I stood and reached toward the floor lamp behind the sofa to turn on the light.

  I gasped as my hand gripped the pull-chain.

  The lamp was starting to shimmer and change shape. The long brass column, topped off by a Tiffany lampshade, was undulating sinuously like a snake, and, startled, I pulled my hand away from it.

  The walls of the carriage house were also beginning to move … in and out … forward and back … much like those in the O.R. had on the day my journey into the realm of insanity began.

  Escape.

  That thought echoed across my mind. I had to get out of there.

  I took a step toward the door, but lost my balance and fell to my knees. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them again, everything would be normal.

  But it wasn’t.

  The walls were still closing in on me and I cowered on the floor, terrified.

  Suddenly, a strange odor of orange blossoms was in the air, and, as I inhaled, my arms and legs began to jerk uncontrollably. My back and neck went rigid and I lay prone on the hardwood floor, succumbing to uncontrollable spasms.

  Eventually, I lost consciousness.

  When I came to, I was still on the floor, lying on my back, my bathrobe drenched in sweat and stale urine. Drained and confused, I struggled to my feet and made my way to the bathroom. After I cleaned up, I made a cup of hot tea and sat on the sofa with a pen and notebook.

  I knew I had had a seizure and it was a doozy. Not quite a grand mal, but close.

  It started with dizziness which caused my fall, and was followed immediately by an olfactory aura … the smell of oranges.

  Putting on my doctor’s hat again, I jotted all this down as I forced myself to remember. I realized now that I had been responding too emotionally to the events swirling around me. A seizure was serious stuff and it was time I looked at myself, and my symptoms, dispassionately.

  I reread my notes. When the aura dissipated, my muscles convulsed, causing my arms and legs to jerk spasmodically and, as a result, my bladder let go. I estimated that the entire episode lasted only one to two minutes, which was a good thing. Anything over three minutes would require a trip to the emergency room … a trip I didn’t want to take.

  But what could cause this abnormal episode? I knew that, during a seizure, the brain’s electrical activity is altered and not in a good way. So, what underlying abnormalities or events could make that happen?

  Quickly, I searched my memory from my neurology rotations and jotted down a list.

  The first, and most common, would be a brain lesion or malfunction … epilepsy. But I had had all the scans and tests back in California less than two months before. And they were conducted at one of the best teaching hospitals in the country by a leading neurologist. In addition, they had been overseen by the Chief of Staff, my father. Of course, there still could be a tiny abnormality hidden somewhere, but it was unlikely.

  Second on my list, was brain or head injury. During my episodes of hallucination, and now during the seizure, I had fallen, but not hit my head. So, this etiology I ruled out as unlikely, too.

  Next would be an infection, such as meningitis or encephalitis, but I’d never had either.

  Then came other types of injury … stroke or lack of oxygen to the brain. I had experienced neither of these so I ruled them out, too.

  Of course, there are congenital or genetic anomalies that can lead to seizures, but, again, I knew of none that affected me. My father told me my mother was bi-polar but I knew of no history of seizure activity. Another cause ruled out.

  Next were metabolic disturbances such as low blood sugar, sodium, calcium, or magnesium. The presence of one or another of these would require lab work and, in the absence of test results, I couldn’t rule this out. However, I suspected it was unlikely.

  Last on my list were drug-related seizures … episodes caused by either the intake of drugs or withdrawal from them. I wasn’t an addict, so I ruled out the latter. However, I began to wonder about the former.

  I was sure I’d been given a date-rape drug, most likely a roofie, the other night. But what about the other episodes I’d experienced? Had I been drugged then?

  I wished now that I hadn’t thrown away the pills Aunt Hettie had prescribed. Seth said they were basically harmless, but now I wondered. There was no labeling on the bottles and, without the Internet, I had no way to verify whether or not the pills in the bottles were the ones Aunt Hettie said they were. Could someone have switched them and given me pharmaceuticals or psychogenic drugs that could induce visions?

  I thought about that for a moment, reliving the terror I’d felt when the railing around the widow’s walk broke. I’d thought I was teetering on the brink of a fall to my death on the rocks below. Then there was that spider-like thing with its horrible chittering and chirping. I shuddered at the thought of it.

  All these episodes could be explained by the ingestion of psychogenic drugs. But what about the first occurrence in the O.R? I hadn’t taken any pills that day. What could have caused that episode?

  Leaning back, I closed my eyes and tried to revisit that day … from the time I got up to when I was forcibly removed from the operating theatre.

  My day had started normally. I’d been up late, working in the E.R, and had only gotten two to three hours’ sleep before it was time for morning rounds.

  The first part of the day went by quickly and normally. Just before noon, I’d taken a catnap in the laundry room. There, I’d been awakened by the sound of two men talking.

  I thought about this for a moment … Dr. Conway and that strange man whom I’d assumed was a pharmaceutical rep. They were talking about money and drugs and Conway was angry. Later, after my hospitalization, Conway would be accused of using experimental pills on me when I was committed to his ward. I wondered now what had happened to him. Had he been fired or prosecuted? And, if so, why hadn’t anyone in authority contacted me for my testimony? These were troubling questions, but still didn’t explain why I had broken down in the O.R.

  Sighing, I returned to my memory of that day.

  After my nap, I had clinic and nothing unusual happened there.

  Or did it?

  Alistair had appeared out of nowhere when I was examining a patient. Not that this in itself was extraordinary, but it was highly unusual. And, he’d brought me a latté. That was extraordinary.

  The latté.

  Had it been laced with drugs? I believed Alistair, with the aid of Raoul, had drugged me here on the island. What if this hadn’t been the first time? What if he’d started the whole thing with that coffee drink in the clinic? But, if he did do it, why? It just didn’t make sense.

  The thought of this was almost too much for my mind to bear, so I got up to brew another cup of tea.

  As I waited for it to steep, I
opened the refrigerator and stared at the leftovers I had from the night before.

  Scallops … hard to hide drugs in them. Asparagus ... again, not a likely suspect. But the Hollandaise, that was another matter. Unfortunately, it was all gone. Nothing left to take to a lab for examination.

  But there was one more item and it was perfect … the chocolate mousse … and I had only eaten half of it. The other half sat in the fridge, nicely wrapped in tin foil.

  I stared at the confection intently for a moment and jumped when the microwave buzzer went off. Taking my tea back to the living room, I resolved that, from here on out, I would try to eat and drink nothing I hadn’t prepared or bought myself.

  As I sipped my tea, my mind moved in another direction … Sloane Bradshaw. I knew I had to find him, to talk with him. I wondered if Jeremy had his address or phone number. My father’d said that Sloane moved off the island after my mother’s death, never to return. But would Jeremy even speak with me?

  I knew that if I had Internet access, I could simply Google the man. After all, Dad said he was a well-known sculptor. There would be something for sure on him on the web … even, perhaps, a Wikipedia entry that would reveal where he lived.

  I picked up my useless phone. Still no connection. What was wrong with these people? I decided then and there that when I went to the mainland, one of the first things I would do would be to switch my cell phone provider. At least then, I could use it to make calls.

  Shaking my head, I returned the phone to its charger and finished my tea. Enough of this for tonight. I was tired. Glancing one more time at my notebook, I resolved to revisit everything in the morning when my head was clearer.

  I took the poker and stirred the fire, then turned out the lights and went to bed.

  Day Trip To The Mainland

  IN THE MORNING, I decided it was time to get away from Storm for the day. From directory assistance, I got the number of a clinical laboratory on the mainland and called to find out their location and hours. Luckily, they were close to town and would be open all day. I made arrangements for a water taxi to pick me up at the Stormview pier at ten a.m. and then to return me to the island at five. I also arranged for a rental car to be available when I landed on the mainland.

  Wanting to look professional, I dressed in a denim skirt, tailored blouse, and low-heeled shoes. I packaged the remaining chocolate mousse in a Tupperware container and secured it, along with my wallet, notebook, cell, and other necessary items in my backpack.

  The taxi was waiting for me when I arrived at the pier and, after a short ride, I stepped off the boat onto the mainland.

  It felt good.

  First thing I did, while walking to the parking lot where the rental car was located, was to check my cell … it was working!

  Once in the car, I ran through my emails, quickly deleting all the junk I’d received over the past few weeks. What was left, I decided to review and answer over lunch.

  Clicking on Safari, I did a search for Sloane Bradshaw, sculptor, and was surprised by how many hits I got. He was, indeed, well-known and there was a Wikipedia link which I quickly clicked on and scanned.

  He had been born on Storm in 1954, which would make him sixty-three years old now. Twenty years prior, when my mother died, he would have been just forty-three, eight years older than Mom. He had works, mostly bronzes, exhibited in many prominent venues. He’d been married, but was now divorced, and had one son, who was also an artist. His current place of residence was listed as Ellsworth, Maine, a town about two to three hours north of us.

  I leaned back, putting the cell into my backpack, and turned on the ignition. I could go there today, but if I did what would happen to the mousse? No, I had to get that dessert to the lab. Analysis was more important than questioning Bradshaw. I would plan another trip over, perhaps next week. And maybe, in between, I could speak to Jeremy about his uncle and try to mend fences with him at the same time.

  Decided, I left the parking lot and, following the directions given to me by the lab receptionist, headed out. It was a pretty drive and I enjoyed the feeling of being behind the wheel of a car again.

  When I arrived at the lab, I took the Tupperware bowl containing the possibly tainted mousse inside, where I was given paperwork to complete.

  “How long will this take?” I asked as I handed over the forms and the plastic container.

  “Well, we’re pretty backed up right now. But I think we’ll probably have the results to you, Dr. Pomeroy, within ten to fourteen working days. Will that be all right?”

  I frowned. I might have to wait two weeks. “The sooner, the better,” I responded. “My patient needs to know if her food’s being tampered with.”

  “I understand. But if you want faster results, I’d suggest you take your concerns to the police. They get priority, you know.”

  “Yes, I understand, but my patient isn’t ready to involve them just yet. Just do the best you can. I’m staying on Storm Island. Here’s the number of the cottage and you have my cell phone number on the form.”

  “No problem. I’ll highlight it.”

  We shook hands and, with no more to say, I left the building and headed back to town.

  By the time I arrived at the parking lot, it was almost noon. I quickly walked to the cell phone store and managed to switch my service. Now I would be able to use my cell for calls and texting on the island. That felt good.

  My main objectives taken care of, I decided to treat myself to a nice lunch. I walked to the busy tourist section of the main wharf where there were plenty of restaurants to pick from. Taking my time, I decided to eat at a well-known seafood place that had tables overlooking the ocean.

  I ordered a scallop salad and a glass of white wine and, while I waited for my food, went through my emails, deleting and answering as necessary. Then, I again Googled Bradshaw and gazed at numerous pictures of his work and of the man himself.

  He was exceptionally good-looking. Rugged with thick salt-n-pepper hair, he could have been a poster boy for the National Parks or any other organization that valued freedom and individualism. Gazing at his visage, it was obvious why my mother was attracted to him. His sculptures also said a lot about his values. The bronzes were mainly fisherman or boaters and represented the State of Maine with beauty and grace.

  I continued to read about him as I ate my lunch, wanting to learn as much as I could before traveling to see him next week. I jotted down the information I gleaned about him in the notes app on my phone and hoped that I would be able to talk Jeremy into divulging his uncle’s address and phone number.

  That is, if I could get Jeremy to talk to me at all. That was the big question that loomed over my mind.

  Finishing my lunch, I noted I still had a couple of hours to kill before the water taxi would come to take me back to Storm and I decided to spend that time shopping. It would be good to do something mindless after all I’d been through the past weeks.

  Later, on the boat, I once again checked my email and was gladdened when I saw three bars instead of those nasty words “No Service” at the top of my phone.

  I had an uneventful evening. My father stopped by to check on me and seemed delighted that I had taken the incentive to spend the day in town. Of course, I mentioned nothing about my seizure or my trip to the chemical lab with Hettie’s chocolate mousse. Instead, I modeled the outfits I’d purchased and talked about the town in general. I also didn’t tell him about my research into Sloane Bradshaw or my plan to visit the sculptor the following week.

  Dad invited me up to the manor house for dinner the next evening and, while at first I hesitated, I agreed to join him. Raoul would be back and it would be time for me to make amends for my behavior the other night. I would just have to be careful and not eat anything that seemed suspicious. Perhaps I could complain of an upset stomach or something and just pick at a salad or some other food less likely to be contaminated.

  Dad left before dinner and I made myself a hamburger and fri
es. After, as I cleaned up the dishes, I again gazed out the window, hoping to see the light from the little silo, but I was disappointed.

  Thinking about the little stone house, I decided that I would go there in daylight the next day and see if I could find a way inside. As I mused, I thought about the couplet written in the summer journal.

  Cast not your eyes on the stone façade,

  For the treasure that you seek.

  Again, I pondered its meaning. Could the “treasure” be the door? That was what I was seeking. And, did it mean that the entry was elsewhere? Not in the stone walls at all? But, if that were so, where? The window? I’d tried to open it but there was no latch. And, for some strange reason, I was still reluctant to try to break the glass.

  Puzzled, I decided to go to bed. Morning would be here soon and, in the light of day, perhaps I could solve the riddle.

  The Stone Silo

  THE NEXT MORNING, I donned jeans and a T-shirt and ventured into the woods in search of the little house. Only a few of my ribbons remained and it was foggy, so it took me longer than I expected to find the clearing.

  An icy wind off the water whipped my hair around as I made my way through the damp and dismal woods. Curiously, I wondered why the weather always seemed to thwart me when I sought out this strange little building.

  When I finally came to the clearing, the tower looked positively dreary and cold. I stood staring at it for a moment, then slowly walked its circumference, running my hands over the stone façade.

  There was nothing there … nothing to indicate a doorway or secret passage. As I stared at the wall, I was reminded of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and the riddle carved into Doors of Durin.

  “Friend,” I said aloud, knowing my literary gesture was most likely futile.

  As expected, nothing happened.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said with a grin as I opened up the step stool and sat down.