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

by Linda Watkins

  Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  “And, your uncle’s one of them?”

  “Yup. On the outside, he’s handsome, artistic, intelligent and well-spoken. But underneath, he’s as nutty as a fruitcake. And, because of that, I don’t want you visiting him alone. Not that he’d get violent, though I can’t rule it out, but he can be difficult.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?”

  “I’ll take you up there. Knowing him, it’s best to go unannounced, but give me a few days to find out if he’s in town. He travels all over the world, you know. Has bronzes in museums in Amsterdam and lots of other places in Europe.”

  “Okay. You’ll call me and let me know?”

  “Sure. Now, I’ve got work to do.”

  He stood and picked up our coffee cups and put them in the kitchen sink.

  “Jeremy,” I said, wanting to prolong the conversation and bring it around to what had happened between us.

  He turned, his face stern, eyes hard and cold.

  “What?” he asked as if daring me to go on.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, chickening out. “Thanks for helping me.”

  His expression softened for a moment, then he nodded once and left the room and, in a few seconds, I heard the back door slam. Knowing this was my cue to leave, I picked up my backpack and exited by the front, hopping on my bike to pedal back to the carriage house.

  As I made my way home, I thought about Storm Island’s infamous beginnings. Wise women and healers trying to find a place of peace. Women whose knowledge of the natural world was supreme.

  I thought about all the drugs we used today that were derived from plants … plants that were most likely known to those women. Then I thought about my mother and wondered how she fit into all this and about her relationship with Sloane Bradshaw. Was there more to it than just a simple affair?

  I didn’t know, but was determined to find out.

  Sloane Bradshaw

  THE NEXT FEW days passed slowly while I waited for Jeremy to call. My father and I spent time together and I could tell he was getting antsy, wanting to return to the West Coast and his practice. He even broached the subject of me coming back with him to resume my training.

  I, however, declined. Life here on the island had shown me that I wasn’t really cut out for the high-pressure world of academia. Instead, I was thinking more and more about staying here, or someplace else close by, hanging out my shingle, and becoming a country doctor.

  When I expressed these feelings to my dad, he was surprised, but accepting.

  On the weekend, Hettie invited me up for a dinner party, but, at the last minute, I declined, claiming a headache. In response, she sent a tray laden with all kinds of delicacies. Regretfully, I tossed them down the garbage disposal and contented myself with a hamburger and fries.

  And every night I scanned the forest for the light from the little oil lamp and, each night, I was disappointed.

  Finally, the following Monday, Jeremy called and said his uncle was in town and that we could go to Ellsworth on Wednesday. He suggested I meet him at the wharf at nine a.m.

  I agreed.

  We took Jeremy’s punt over to the mainland and, from there, began our two to three-hour journey north to Ellsworth. Jeremy estimated we would be there by noon.

  We drove without speaking for a while, neither of us daring to venture into conversation. Finally, the silence getting on my nerves, I began prattling on about my newfound calling as a general practitioner, possibly on Storm.

  Jeremy didn’t respond as I babbled on, his face a mask.

  We were about an hour into our journey when, without any warning, he swerved the car off onto the shoulder. My hands shot out, gripping the dash in an attempt to brace myself as he brought the car to an abrupt stop.

  “What was that all about?” I yelled. “You about scared me to death!”

  He turned in his seat, leaning toward me.

  “You weren’t lying, were you?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  I hesitated for a moment, not sure, at first, what he was talking about. Then, I knew.

  “No,” I said, softly. “I wasn’t. I was drugged when you saw me. Alistair tried to take advantage, hence my appearance, but I stopped him. What else happened, I don’t remember.”

  As I said those words, the whole experience came rushing back and tears slid down my cheeks.

  Jeremy stared at me for a moment, then took my hands in his.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  I nodded and began to describe what happened that night. Before I finished, I also confessed the salient details about my affair with Alistair before coming to Storm.

  “I broke it off with him over the phone. I guess he felt he needed to punish me. I tried to tell my dad and Hettie, but they all ganged up on me … made it seem as if I were concocting a story to hurt him or that I was deluded.”

  Jeremy was silent for a moment, then pounded his fist against the dash.

  “Redbone! I can’t believe you had an affair with the likes of him. Fucking snob.”

  I stared down at my hands, feeling ashamed. I didn’t know what to say. I bit my bottom lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

  Jeremy sighed, unclenching his fist, then lifted my chin with his fingers and gazed into my eyes.

  “But I’ve had my share of stupid flings, too. Sometimes, well, we lose our heads, don’t we? Throw our better judgement out the window. I can’t blame or be mad at you for what you did. It all happened before we found each other.”

  I listened and searched his face for what, I don’t know … forgiveness? Love?

  “Come here,” he said, softly. “I wish I’d punched Redbone out like I wanted to that night. When I think how I treated you. I’m sorry. I acted like a jerk. My only excuse is that I was hurt … and jealous. Can you forgive me?”

  I was silent for a moment.

  “Katy?”

  “You should have had more faith in me.”

  “I know. I know. I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

  We stared at each other, then I smiled through my tears.

  “Okay,” I said. “But don’t let it happen again.”

  He grinned, squeezing my hand. “I won’t. I promise. I won’t.

  I don’t know how long we sat on the side of the road, resting in each other’s arms.

  Finally, Jeremy pulled away.

  “There’s just one thing that puzzles me in all this,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Why would he drug you? From what you said, he stopped when told him to. Doesn’t seem like the behavior of a man bent on rape.”

  “I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t Alistair. But someone drugged me and, while it may sound paranoid, I think that whoever did it wants me out of the way.”

  “Out of the way? What do you mean?”

  “Everything that’s happened since that day in the O.R. doesn’t make sense. My nightmares, hallucinations, and visions … they all started then. And they all have the hallmarks of psychogenic drugs … LSD and others more potent. Someone wants my dad and everyone else to believe I’m nuts and need to be put away in an asylum. Why, I’m not sure, but I think it may have something to do with a conversation I overheard before this all began.”

  I told him then about Conway and the laundry room and, also, about the drugs that had been used on me illegally while I was confined to the psych ward.

  “And, it’s funny,” I concluded. “No one from the police or Medical Board has contacted me about Conway. You’d think they’d both want my testimony or something.”

  “Yeah, that is strange. What does your dad have to say about it?”

  “I haven’t asked him. All this stuff has just been coming clear to me. I didn’t put the pieces together before. But I’m going to talk to Dad when we get back from seeing Sloane.”

  Jeremy glanced at his watch.

  “Well, if we’re ever going to see my uncle, I think we’d better ge
t going. At this rate, we won’t get to Ellsworth until nightfall.”

  We stopped for lunch at a fast food restaurant just off the highway and, by the time we arrived in the town of Ellsworth, it was going on three o’clock.

  After gassing up and asking for directions, we finally arrived at a modest two-story brick colonial that Sloane Bradshaw called home. Jeremy pulled the car into the drive and helped me out.

  “He’s probably around back in his shop,” he said. “But, I suppose we should check the front door first. You stay here.”

  He bounded up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. After getting no response, he returned to my side.

  “No answer,” he said. “Let’s go around back.”

  We found Jeremy’s uncle in the garage, which apparently served as his studio. He was outfitted like a welder – wearing helmet, goggles, gloves, and a heavy flame-resistant apron. He didn’t hear us enter and we waited patiently, not wanting to surprise him while he was holding the torch.

  Finally, he seemed to sense us, extinguished the flame, and turned around.

  He stared at us, his face stern.

  “Uncle Sloane,” said Jeremy.

  The man’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “Jeremy,” he said. “That you, boy?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Katy and I were in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by.”

  He looked me over rather suspiciously, then nodded. “You two go on up to the house and make yourselves comfortable. There’s beer and lemonade in the fridge. I’ll just finish up here and be up in a minute.”

  Jeremy nodded, took my hand, and we returned to the house. Inside, he poured me a glass of lemonade, grabbed himself a beer, and led me to the back porch which was lined with rocking chairs. We each took a seat and waited.

  Sloane, minus the welding gear, finally appeared, striding across the lawn. He ignored us and went directly into the house, returning a few minutes later, a beer in hand. He took a long drink then sat on the rail in front of us.

  “Sculpting’s thirsty work,” he said, taking another drink. “Now, what brings you here? And, don’t keep pretending it’s a social call.”

  Jeremy grinned. “You’re right, Uncle Sloane, it’s not a social call. Katy here is the daughter of Cassandra and Ham Pomeroy and she has some questions for you concerning her mother.”

  Sloane’s eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze toward me.

  “Cassie’s daughter … all grown up. Pity you don’t take after her. She was a stunner.”

  I swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Yes, I’m Cassie’s daughter. And, I take after my father’s side of the family. I understand you and she were friends that final summer on the island. Is that so?”

  He laughed, but not pleasantly. “You might say we were friends.”

  He didn’t elaborate so it was up to me to push on.

  “My father said the two of you were having an affair. Is that true?”

  Sloane shook his head, laughing.

  “Good old Ham. Always ready to jump to conclusions. From whom did he get that information, Katy?”

  “Raoul Kassis, my uncle.”

  Now, Sloane really laughed … so hard I thought he might fall off the railing.

  When his guffaws finally subsided, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped tears from his eyes. Then, he turned his steely gaze on me again.

  “Raoul couldn’t find his ass with both hands. Be assured, your mother and I were NOT having an affair … we were having something, but not an affair.”

  I glanced over at Jeremy, who was scowling now, apparently not happy with the way Sloane was treating me. I rested my hand on his arm, trying to keep him calm.

  “So what was it?” I asked. “If it wasn’t sexual, then what was it you and she were having?”

  He didn’t answer, but, instead, got up and walked into the house. He came back a few minutes later carrying two books, which he handed to me.

  “Here,” he said.

  I glanced at the titles. The first was a slim volume called Witches of Storm Island; the second was titled, The Genealogy of New England’s Witches. I opened both volumes to their copyright pages. The first one had been published in 1804 in Salem, Massachusetts. The second, in 1885, again in Salem.

  I looked back to Sloane. “What do these have to do with my mother?”

  He sighed. “To understand what went on that summer, you have to know the history of the place. Hence, the treatise on the witches of Storm. You also have to understand the connection between the poor souls who were executed there and those living on the island today. Hence, the second book.”

  I glanced down at the volumes again, then back to Sloane. “Are you implying that my mother had something to do with this? That she was a witch?”

  Again, Sloane laughed, this time with some genuine mirth.

  “Jeremy, I do believe you may have chosen a ‘keeper.’ This girl’s sharp.”

  “Well,” Jeremy replied. “Is what she says correct? Did you get her mother all wound up in your Wiccan nonsense?”

  Sloan’s laughter died quickly and his face became stern. “You need to learn to watch your tongue, nephew, and listen with an open mind.”

  Then, he turned away from Jeremy and once again faced me.

  “In a way, you’re right. Cassie and I were exploring … looking for evidence of things outside reality’s grasp.”

  I considered this statement for a minute, then, again, plunged right in.

  “And, in your explorations, did you discover a small stone building in the woods behind the carriage house?”

  My question, clearly, caught him off-guard, but he recovered quickly. “No. I know of no such building. Now, I’m tired and its getting late. If you’re staying here for the night, might I suggest the La Quinta Inn. It’s on the first exit after you leave town. They have a restaurant and offer free breakfast. And, young lady, read those books and, afterward, if you have questions, contact me.”

  With those words, he rose and, nodding once to Jeremy, went inside the house, closing the door behind him. Clearly, we had overstayed our welcome.

  “Come on,” said Jeremy, helping me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We were both hungry and decided to stay the night and return to Storm in the morning. We found the La Quinta easily and secured a room, then went down to the restaurant for dinner. We said little about our encounter with Sloane, each of us trying to wrap our minds around what he had revealed.

  Finally, as we finished our meal, Jeremy broke the silence.

  “What was all that about a little stone building?” he asked.

  “Oh, I forgot. I didn’t tell you about that. Remember the night you found me soaking wet in the road?”

  Jeremy smiled. “How could I forget. You looked like a drowned cat.”

  I smiled. “Yeah. Well, I lied to you that night.”

  A look of surprise passed over his face as I began to tell him about finding the strange little building. However, I didn’t tell him everything. In retrospect, I know I probably should have, but it all sounded so paranoid and, lumped together with all the other incidents that cast doubt on my sanity, I was afraid this one could be the straw that broke the camel’s back and that Jeremy would decide that I was, indeed, stark-raving mad.

  Accepting the tale I told, he probed me some more about my conviction that someone was drugging me and I told him about the seizure I’d experienced.

  “It was real scary,” I said. “But back in California I had all the appropriate tests and scans and there was nothing, no brain lesion or anything, that could have caused a seizure. I went over all the other usual causes and the only one that made sense in my case was related to drugs. I’d eaten food provided by the cook at Stormview that night and, I hate to say it – I know it sounds crazy – but I think something on that tray was laced with some sort of drug. I took the leftover chocolate mousse to a clinical laboratory near town.�
��

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. The results aren’t back yet. They should be calling me any day now.”

  “But what if they’re negative, Katy? Have you thought about that?”

  I sighed. “Yes, I have. I don’t know what I’ll do then. It could have been in the Hollandaise sauce, but I ate all of that.”

  “I know you believe this, Katy,” he said, softly. “But Hettie and Raoul drugging you? That seems kind of farfetched, doesn’t it? I know Raoul’s a pretty shady dude. God knows what he’s got his fingers into. But drugging you? And Redbone … he’s a sleaze, but I don’t see him as some kind of evil mastermind.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I replied, a hint of anger creeping into my voice. Was he starting to doubt me again? “It doesn’t make sense. But, I’ve never experienced these kinds of hallucinations before. Everything started that day in the O.R. and there was no predisposing incident that could have triggered a mental breakdown. I was fine. So, either I’m insane or I’m right about someone drugging me. Those are your options, Jeremy. Take your pick.”

  He laughed. “Well, I don’t think you’re a nutcase, so I guess we have to assume the worst and take a closer look at those folks at the manor house.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. He believed me.

  “Thanks for keeping faith with me,” I whispered.

  “My pleasure,” he replied, leaning over and kissing me softly. “Now, let’s get outta here.”

  The next morning, we slept in. We made love in the shower, then hit the road. As we drove home, I began reading one of the books Sloane had given me, The Witches of Storm Island.

  It wasn’t easy reading. The sentence structure and syntax were old-fashioned and archaic. The story focused mainly on one woman, Maude Pritchard, who, apparently, was considered the ringleader of the coven that settled on Storm. In her thirties when she and the others abandoned their homes in Massachusetts, she was described as a striking woman with long black hair and flashing dark eyes. It was supposed that, although she was descended from good old English stock, somewhere in her background lay gypsy blood and it was from that tainted blood that she got her exotic appearance.