Thirty-Seven

W e followed Mrs. Cushman along the maze of docks, weaving through the press of boaters and guests as she headed toward the back lawn of the Vander Hagens’ rambling, lannon-stone ranch. The back of the house faced the bay, sitting at a comfortable distance from the marina yet close enough to keep an eye on things, just the way Tate’s dad had intended when he’d built it. Once across the patio, Mrs. Cushman opened the sliding glass door. Giff strolled in without a care. I felt slightly uncomfortable as I followed him.

“Wow,” he remarked. “Much cleaner than I expected for a muscly bachelor, although the whole lakeside, boating theme is a bit overdone.”

“Really?” I replied, scanning the airy room that was filled with sailing memorabilia. “The man owns a marina. And in case you hadn’t noticed, the lake is right over there.” I pointed out the sliding glass doors and continued through the family room to the kitchen. I immediately noticed a sprinkle of bread crumbs on a cutting board and a knife streaked with mayonnaise in the sink. A couple of empty beer cans sat on the counter beside the cutting board as well, which, under the circumstances, didn’t seem so out of place.

“I cleaned this place up yesterday,” Mrs. Cushman informed us. “Tate must have made a sandwich last night.” She pointed to the beer cans. “And drank a few of those.”

“Just two?” Giff shot me a pointed look. “I admire his restraint. Whenever I get dumped I go straight to the gin.”

“Well, that’s a good idea,” Mrs. Cushman replied. “It’s far more respectable than drowning your sorrows with these.” She held up the beer cans, tipped them over the sink to force out the last few drops, and dropped them in the recyclable bin. The enchanted look on Giff’s face faded to gentle amusement when she added, “I’m not one for the gym.” Clearly she had misheard him. “I prefer yoga myself.”

Giff wrinkled his nose in mock distaste. “I suppose anything’s tolerable with a splash of tonic and a twist of lime.”

Mrs. Cushman nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever tried Jenn’s cherry smoothie? That’ll fortify a body.” Thinking, she added, “It might even help mend a broken heart. I’ll have to make one for Tate when he returns.”

“Good thinking,” Giff said and asked her to point him in the direction of the master bedroom.

While Giff meandered off down the back hall, I gave another thought to the two beers in the recycle bin. I took a quick inventory of Tate’s fridge as well. He was never in the habit of keeping a lot in there, but I did know that he was fond of sandwich fixings. It was his go-to meal, convenient for a late-night snack and the perfect food for sailing. I turned to Mrs. Cushman. “It doesn’t take two beers to make one sandwich, especially for a man adept at wrapping a couple of pieces of bread around nearly everything he eats. Did his fridge look this empty yesterday?” I swung the double doors wide so she could bet a better look. “Two beers might indicate he was in the kitchen longer than the time it takes to make and eat one sandwich. Could he have been stocking up? You know, preparing for a longer sail?”

She gave a little sigh. “It appears so. There was a lot of beer in there the other day.”

I smiled gently. “I’ll check the garage just to be sure. If there’s a cooler missing, I’ll spot it.” I headed out of the kitchen, aiming for the garage, but then decided to make a detour to the master bedroom first, strongly suspecting that Giff was in there just snooping around for his own amusement.

I opened the door and was a little shocked to see him sitting on the unmade bed studying a framed picture. He looked up as I entered, but the impish grin never appeared. Instead I was met with a quiet, solemn expression. “This was on the nightstand. It was placed face down. Pity,” he said, turning the picture to me. “You two made an adorable couple.”

The picture had been taken years ago. Tay had gotten a new camera and had joined us for a sail aboard the Lusty Dutchman. She’d snapped a lot of pictures that day, but this one had been Tate’s favorite. He was at the wheel and I was beside him, our heads pressed together, our happiness genuine. We looked as if we didn’t have a care in the world, and back then we hadn’t. How strange pictures are, I thought. Capturing emotions with the click of a button. I had been in love, but I didn’t remember how much until I was forced to look at my own face. It was years ago, yet nonetheless my heart clenched painfully and every nerve in my body ached with renewed sadness.

Tate had obviously felt it too, finally understanding that our day in the sun had passed. It was over. He had laid any remaining hopes to rest. The picture sent a clear message. Tate hadn’t been targeted by the Cherry Cove killer; I had chased him away. I had broken his heart.

I walked over and gently took the picture from Giff’s hands. I then laid it back down on the nightstand. “We shouldn’t be in here. The man deserves his privacy.”

Giff agreed and followed me out of the room. Before we left I checked the garage. Tate’s pickup truck was parked in one of the bays, and, just as I expected, a cooler was missing.

“Call me if he returns,” I told Mrs. Cushman. “If I don’t hear from you in a few hours, we’ll try to find him.”

“You’re driving,” I told Giff, heading for his gently used, light gray, three-series BMW convertible. “We’ll pick up mine on the way back.” I threw the peanut butter cookies in the back seat and buckled up. The moment we pulled out of the Cherry Cove Marina heading north, I asked, “What the devil were you doing there?”

The picture on Tate’s nightstand had given Giff a jolt, and at least he had the decency to look guilty. “The man’s heartbroken,” he stated. “And Mrs. Cushman was worried. Is it a crime to visit the poor woman and offer comfort?”

“Generally, no. But I know you. Your visit to the marina wasn’t about Mrs. Cushman. It was reconnaissance. You want to get as much information on Tate as you can because you’re infatuated with him. You’re swooping in on my territory!”

With sunlight glinting off his blond highlights and the mirrored blue lenses on his black sunglasses, he turned to me and smiled. Damn him, but his teeth were blinding too. “Abandoned territory, angel. The man’s vulnerable. I thought he could use a friend, one who understands exactly what he’s going through. I used to work with you, remember? I have invaluable insight the man could use just now.”

Maybe I wasn’t totally over Tate, I thought, staring at Giff as we drove out of town toward our next destination. Fighting the sudden impulse to squeeze his neck, I offered instead, “He’s one hundred percent hetero. You know that, right? I mean, you can’t get any more manly than Tate Vander Hagen.”

“Angel,” he soothed, grinning at my discomfort. “Your imagination delights me. But this isn’t what you think it is. Yes, I’m curious about that Adonis, and I’m also concerned. But I’m also a wee bit suspicious as well. Think about it. Tate knew Ms. Lumiere. You told me yourself that she tried to get him to pose for her in the nude. He has access to the inn, and I’m sure he could get a black cape if he wanted one.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. But I’ve been thinking. Peter McClellan’s an obvious choice for a murder suspect, isn’t he? He’s got motive, access to the inn, and he’s riddled with vices. He has an alibi, but it’s not without its flaws. Tate knows all this too. Both of you stumbled on Mr. McClellan when he was holding one of his little voodoo ceremonies on the beach. You said that Tate was beyond angry when he found out that Peter was supplying young Mr. Larson with weed. After Mr. Larson’s checkered recent past that had to have been quite a blow to a man like Tate, being a mentor to the boy. Another thing to consider. He’s still in love with you. What if he was trying to protect you from Silvia’s misplaced wrath and devised a way to make that happen? He wasn’t at the inn the night of her murder, but he could have entered the building late at night without anybody knowing. He probably still has a key to the place, and nobody’s bothered to look at him as a suspect. I doubt he even has an alibi.”

Giff kept driving while I thought about what he was saying. I didn’t really believe Tate would do such a thing, but Giff did make a sound case for further questioning. The moment I spied the narrow road flanked by trees, I instructed Giff to make a sharp left. He made another sharp left down an equally narrow gravel driveway, bringing us to our destination. As Giff turned off the car, I asked, “Do you think his sudden disappearance has anything to do with Silvia’s murder?”

Giff shrugged. “I did until I saw that picture. Honestly, I’m just as confused as you are. By the way, where are we?”

“Another man we need to talk to,” I said, peering at the rustic, ramshackle cottage before us that was clearly in need of a new roof. “Bob Bonaire. As much as it pains me to admit it, I don’t think we have the luxury of ignoring anyone who had a serious issue with Silvia Lumiere. Over the past month, that woman made Bob’s life a private hell. Clearly he’s not much of a housekeeper, but the man can cook. He’s one of the best on the peninsula, and that woman made him doubt it at every meal.”

“Let me guess. He also has keys to the inn?”

I looked at Giff and offered a wan smile. “Probably owns a black cape as well. I’m told they’re all the rage.”