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

by Linda Watkins

  How to get inside?

  My mind returned to the couplet, acknowledging that maybe I had been right about it. The “treasure” – the doorway – was not anywhere on the stone façade.

  I gazed up at the little building’s peaked roof. Maybe there was something up on top … an entryway. I would have to come back with a ladder to check it out. Perhaps tomorrow, after my session with Hettie.

  Feeling frustrated, I stood and carried the step stool over to the window and climbed up.

  As before, I could see nothing through the glass. The interior was black. I ran my hands about the exterior of the window but could find no way to open it.

  A drop of rain landed on my forehead and I gazed up at the sky. Thunderheads were moving swiftly from the mainland toward the island. Quickly, I folded the stool and headed back to the carriage house and arrived just before the first boom of thunder sounded.

  Knowing bad weather was eminent, I grabbed my L.L. Bean log carriers and dashed out to the woodpile, filling them, then returned to the house to wait out the first lashes of the storm.

  The squall blew through quickly and, by the time I made my way to the manor house for dinner, everything was calm again.

  I was expecting just my dad, Hettie, and Raoul and was surprised to find there were other guests - the Palmers, the oldest of the four families.

  Hector Palmer was an attorney and ex-Senator from Connecticut. A cautious and reclusive man, he was rarely seen outside his estate. His wife, Nancy, was, to the contrary, very social and known to rule the roost. Descended from settlers who arrived in the New World on the Mayflower, she was a proud member of the Daughters of the Revolution and never let anyone forget it. My mother had often mimicked the woman’s haughty demeanor when she was out of earshot, bringing peals of laughter to those around her.

  I had not seen the Palmers since I was ten years old and took a moment to reintroduce myself.

  Raoul, as usual, was at the bar, mixing drinks and, at the same time, began to regale us with bawdy stories of his youth in Cairo.

  I was sitting on the sofa next to Hector when Raoul came by carrying a tray laden with cocktails.

  “And, what will the young Miss have?” he asked, proffering the tray. “I have a special chocolate martini here that I believe may have your name on it.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” I responded, eyeing the martini suspiciously. “My stomach was bothering me this morning, so I think I’ll lay off the booze for the night. But thanks anyway.”

  He frowned, then offered a different drink to Hector.

  Conversation turned to island matters, Nancy complaining loudly about the Levines and the lack of Internet.

  “It’s their responsibility,” she said. “And they’re shirking. I don’t care if Hiram Levine has just gotten back from his honeymoon. It’s positively rude not to have taken care of the Internet before July first.”

  No one disputed her argument. After all, the Palmers were the first of the four families to come to Storm and, as such, were treated by the others with deference. Their family had purchased the entire island in the late 1930s and, over the next twenty-five years, sold off the other three parcels. Hettie and Raoul were newcomers, comparatively speaking, having purchased their share from one of the original families who found themselves in financial decline. Thus, entertaining the Palmers was much like a command performance, so no one interrupted or disputed what Nancy was saying.

  Gratefully, her tirade was cut short by one of the household staff who announced that dinner was served.

  As we all adjourned to the dining room, I wondered how I was going to get through this meal without eating or drinking anything untoward.

  My prayers were answered when I saw the large salad bowl on the sideboard, filled tomatoes and fresh greens. Next to it were several small carafes containing dressings of various flavors. Since the salad wasn’t already dressed, it was very unlikely that someone could or would have tainted each of the sauces. Therefore, I could continue with my sour stomach excuse and just have salad.

  Cook brought in a taurine of lobster bisque and began serving. I declined, even though I doubted that this, too, would contain any pharmaceuticals. Better to stick to my story and not do anything to cast doubt on it.

  I made it through dinner, Raoul and Hettie seemingly accepting my excuse for not partaking in all the scrumptious dishes. Afterward, again citing my stomach, I made my apologies and headed back to the carriage house early.

  Once home, I resolved to spend the next evening at the Whistle in the hopes of seeing Jeremy. I needed to get his uncle’s address and phone number, but also wanted to see if we could patch things up.

  Trying to make myself feel optimistic, I realized I was still hungry. I made myself a tuna sandwich then sat down in front of the fire to read. About an hour later, I turned off the lights and retired to my bedroom for an uneventful sleep.

  The “Wet Your Whistle”

  THE NEXT EVENING, I dressed in a pair of white linen shorts and pink silk blouse. I left my hair down, curling softly around my shoulders. Finally, I dabbed on my mother’s perfume and slipped into a pair of flip-flops.

  I smiled at my reflection in the mirror. Despite all that I’d gone through, I looked okay. I tied a light sweater around my shoulders and grabbed my backpack.

  It was seven o’clock. Time to go to the Whistle.

  The place was already crowded when I got there. I found a stool at the bar and asked for a glass of wine while I looked at the menu. Once I ordered, I scanned the place. There was no sign of Jeremy.

  Sighing, I pulled my mother’s journal, written the year when I turned nine, from my backpack and started to read.

  As I scanned the entries, I wondered why she never mentioned Sloane Bradshaw, not even in passing. She talked about all the other islanders we were acquainted with. Why not Bradshaw? It was almost as if he never existed at all.

  My food came and I ate hungrily. By the time I finished, it was going on nine and the bar was now packed. Music was blaring from the jukebox and several couples were dancing. I gazed around again – still no Jeremy.

  A fool’s errand, I told myself, finishing the last of my wine. I motioned to the bartender for the check and was pulling my wallet from my backpack when I heard a familiar laugh.

  Swiveling on the barstool, I caught sight of him standing in the far corner, talking with a pretty blonde whom I guessed was in her mid-twenties. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear, which caused her to erupt in peals of laughter. Then he put his arm about her waist and guided her out of the corner. They were heading for the dance floor and had to pass right by me to get there. I knew this would be my only chance to gain his attention.

  “Jeremy,” I called as he moved by the bar area.

  Turning, he frowned, then stared at me. “Why, Katy, what are you doing here? Nothing going on at the big house?”

  There was a ring of sarcasm to his voice, but I ignored it. The blonde was staring at me, looking quite irked by my intrusion.

  Jeremy turned to her. “I’ll be with you in a minute, honey. Katy’s an old friend.”

  The blonde nodded, gave him a bright smile and sauntered over to the jukebox where she leaned against the wall, waiting.

  “Jeremy,” I said, again. “I need to speak to you.”

  He scowled. “We’ve already talked and I don’t think there’s anything more to say.”

  I took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “This isn’t about us,” I replied. “Though I would like a chance to explain. But, that’s neither here nor there. I need to talk to you about your uncle, Sloane, and … my mother.”

  He looked surprised and, for a moment, the hardness in his eyes faded.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why do you want to dredge all that up?”

  “I need to talk with him. To find out if he knows anything about the night before she died.”

  “Why would he know anything about t
hat?”

  “I think they were together that night … and I don’t believe she killed herself.”

  There, I’d said it aloud. The suspicion that had been lurking in the recesses of my mind for twenty years. I believed my mother had been murdered.

  Jeremy raised his eyebrows, surprised by my declaration. He was silent for a moment, studying me, then took a deep breath.

  “I can’t talk tonight,” he finally said, nodding his head toward the blonde. “But I’ll be home all day tomorrow. Come by and we’ll talk.”

  I smiled at him, grateful he hadn’t brushed me off.

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  He turned and swiftly walked to where the blonde waited impatiently and swept her into his arms.

  I watched them dance, tears welling in my eyes, then paid my check and left.

  When I reached the carriage house, I pulled my bike around to the side. It was a beautiful night, the moon full and bright. As I put the bike away under the eaves of the house, I gazed at the woods beyond.

  The light was on.

  I blinked my eyes rapidly, then stared again. Yes, it was the oil lamp in the stone silo, silently beckoning to me.

  Quickly, I went inside, grabbed my flashlight, checked its batteries, then headed once again into the woods.

  The Second Couplet

  WHEN I GOT to the clearing, everything was as I’d left it the last time. I opened up the step stool, climbed on, and peered into the window.

  The oil lamp flickered as if saying “hello,” then began to shine brightly, illuminating more of the room and, for the first time, I could see beyond the desk and chair.

  The far wall was lined with shelves that were curiously carved as if they had been crafted just for this building. And they were full of books … fat ones and skinny ones … some resting on their sides and some standing upright like little tin soldiers. The bindings of most were cracked, the pages, brown with age, loosened and falling out.

  How old is this building anyway? I wondered, as I strained to read the titles on the spines. But the light was still too dim for that and, given the condition of the books, it was impossible to make them out.

  After staring for a moment, I gave up and turned my attention back to the desk. The journal was still lying open to the first page, Poem for Summer. But now another couplet had been added!

  I shone my torch toward the writing, my nose pressed against the glass. Blinking my eyes rapidly to clear them of any moisture, I stared intently at the page:

  Cast not your eyes on the stone façade,

  For the treasure that you seek.

  Cast not your eyes on the sky above,

  Lest the sunlight make you weep.

  I wondered what it meant. Was the couplet referring to my assumption that the entrance might come from above? From an attic room? Was someone or something telling me not to bother with schlepping a ladder out here to the clearing? And if that was the case, who was doing this and how could they read my mind?

  Puzzled, I stepped off the stool, re-folded it, and leaned it against the building again. It was obvious to me that someone was trying to mimic my mother’s journal writing. But why? And down what garden path was this all leading me?

  I thought again about the missing journal, the one she wrote that final summer. Was that book the key?

  I had more questions than answers as I walked back through the woods, thankful, for once, that the weather was mild.

  Inside, I changed into my pajamas and brewed a cup of tea. Glancing at the phone, I noted there was a message waiting, most likely from my father. I pressed the button, listening. He was checking up on me again. Noting the time, I decided it was too late to call back and made a note to do so first thing in the morning.

  Tired and full of anticipation about my meeting with Jeremy the next day, I finished my tea and went to bed.

  Jeremy

  I WOKE UP nervous. Would Jeremy laugh at my suspicions? Would he think this was just another sign or symptom of my paranoia? Or would he aid me in my quest to meet with his uncle? And, more important, could the spark between us be rekindled or was it stone-cold dead … a thing of the past?

  After a quick breakfast, I went for a jog to try to calm myself down. Feeling refreshed, I showered and threw on a pair of shorts and long-sleeved T-shirt. I pulled my hair back into a scrunchie and donned a baseball cap. Then, grabbing my backpack, went outside and got on my bike.

  It was going on ten when I arrived at Jeremy’s. As before, the front door was open and I peered in through the screen. He was sitting at the kitchen table and, when he saw me, he waved me inside.

  “Hi,” I said. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Take a seat, Katy. Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He got up and filled a cup, adding sugar and cream in the exact proportions I liked. Then, he handed it to me and sat down opposite.

  We sipped our drinks silently. Finally, he spoke.

  “Give it to me again,” he said. “Just why do you want to meet with my uncle?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve recently learned that he and my mom had a … a friendship and I believe she was with him the night before she died. Maybe he remembers something she said or did that might be a clue as to what happened to her.”

  “But she committed suicide. Everyone knows that. Why are you dredging all this up now? And, what makes you think she didn’t kill herself?”

  I hesitated for a moment, then plunged right in. There was no use in vacillating now.

  “After it happened, no one really asked me to explain what I saw when I found her. My father, in particular, didn’t want me to have to relive the experience. So, I kept it bottled up … suppressed … that is, until now. Dad and I had a conversation about it the other day and that’s when he told me about your uncle. And, in response, I recounted what I remembered from the day she died.

  “Jeremy, when I got to the tower room and opened the door, my mom was hanging from the fan just like everyone said. But, what no one else knew but me was that the fan was on and her body was revolving ‘round and ‘round….”

  I stopped there, unable to go on. I took a sip of my coffee, composing myself, then continued.

  “There’s no way she could have strung herself easily from that fan. It was on high speed and it would have been almost impossible for her to tie a rope to it and hang herself. And, even if it’s true – that she did commit suicide – then someone else entered that room before me … someone who turned on the fan. A person who didn’t back then, and hasn’t ever since, said a thing about it.”

  I stopped, waiting for his response. With shaking hands, I picked up my mug and took another sip.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone this before, Katy?”

  I looked up at him. “I was only ten. I had just seen my mother, who I loved more than life, hanging from the ceiling … her neck broken. I was in shock. And, anyway, no one asked me. I was just a little girl and didn’t realize the significance of the fan. Actually, I never thought about it much until now. But, now, I’m back here for the first time in years and there are so many things that remain unexplained. I think your uncle may hold the key … probably unknowingly. And, that’s why I need to see him.”

  Jeremy was silent for a moment, then nodded.

  “Okay, I get it. But, let me explain a few things about my uncle before we go any further. He’s a difficult man … very talented, but difficult. Always has been.”

  “Difficult? How so?”

  “Christ, how do I explain this. Besides being a sculptor, he’s also an amateur historian, his focus being on this island and its past. One might say he’s obsessed with Storm and its history. And, he has beliefs that are a bit unconventional.”

  “Beliefs? What kind of beliefs?”

  Jeremy took a moment, got up, and retrieved the coffee pot from the kitchen.

  “Another cup?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I respon
ded. “But what about his beliefs? Do you mean religion?”

  Jeremy poured the coffee then sat back down.

  “Yes, religion. He’s a Wiccan.”

  “A Wiccan? You mean a witch?”

  Jeremy laughed. “No, not a witch. A Wiccan … a pagan. He believes in the Goddess and Mother Earth, and all that crap. And, he’s obsessed with the history of all those poor souls who were burned at the stake here back in the seventeen hundreds.’”

  My jaw dropped. “Burned at the stake? Here on Storm?”

  Jeremy laughed. “Christ, I forget you were just a little kid last time you were here. You never sat around a beach bonfire telling ghost stories with the rest of us.”

  “I was never invited.”

  “That’s right, you weren’t. Okay, here’s the history in a nutshell. Back in olden days, after the Salem witch trials, a bunch of Wiccans decided Massachusetts wasn’t safe anymore for folks like them. So, they pooled their coins and took off for Maine. Storm Island is where they finally settled. Once here, they split up the land, settling mainly on each of the four compass points, the same spots the big houses sit today. Don’t know why they did that, but there’s probably some mystical explanation for it all.

  “Anyway, they lived here in peace for a few years until the Puritans got wind of their settlement and commissioned their own ship to go rout the infidels. Well, they came with force, a small army, and rounded up all the Wiccans and, after a mock trial, burned them at the stake. And, that’s the history of this island … steeped in the blood of the Goddess worshippers.”

  I sat silent, sipping my coffee, taking it all in.

  “Wow,” I finally said, shaking my head sadly. “That’s some history. You know the people they burned were most likely wise women … midwives … women learned in holistic healing. Those women laid the groundwork for the modern pharmaceutical industry with their knowledge of plants and herbs.”