| |
Despite the gloomy, overcast skies Monica and Erin enjoyed the small lanes, paths, and twisty roads of Indian Island whose winter population of 1000 swelled to three times that in the summer months. Clapboard and shingled cottages sat behind white picket fences and stone walls, and baskets and window boxes of lime-colored sweet potato vines, geraniums and nasturtiums added splashes of color. The commercial section of town boasted cobbled streets, old style streetlights and wooden hand carved store and street signs.
Tea and coffee shops, dress shops, maritime gift and art galleries, pubs, restaurants, fishing and sailing equipment stores lined the main streets and continued down small roads towards the sandy beach. In the distance, a large red and white lighthouse was flashing its beam out towards the ocean.
Eventually, the wet, cold rain drove the girls into The Port Side Coffee Shop, and they sipped their hot coffees gratefully. Erin noticed the tattered looking man with the shabby waxed coat in the back corner of the shop, long grey hair and battered leather cowboy hat. “Doesn’t look like your typical Indian Island resident,” she whispered to Monica.
Monica slowly looked towards the man, but just at that instant he looked up and saw her gazing at him. He put down his cup and stared at the girls until they were very uncomfortable. Eventually he got up, pulled his coat around him and without a word walked out the door.
“Interesting local character,” said Monica to the waitress approaching with a coffee pot.
“Oh, that’s Wiley. He’s a little different, but harmless. His fishing boat exploded and sank about six or seven years ago just off the island. His crew all drowned. He was rescued, ended up here and stayed. He does odd jobs for food and keeps an eye on some of the houses in winter. He knows everything about everyone here.”
“Is he ok, you know, upstairs?” asked Monica tapping the side of her head. “He sure looked at us funny.”
“He didn’t recognize you. Wiley is very withdrawn because of the tragedy on his boat. I guess he blames himself for the deaths of his crew. He’s a bit quirky and keeps a small notebook with him at all times and he records his day to the minute. You know, 9:00 am coffee here, 9:20 am trash walkabout, 10:20 house check at Fisher’s place, well you get the idea.”
“Where does he live?” asked Erin.
“In an old beach shack about half a mile from here. Just big enough for a few sticks of furniture and a stove for winter.”
“What is the trash walkabout?” asked Monica.
“He goes all around the town, past the marina, past the resort and around the houses at Pearson’s Point and he picks up any garbage he finds along the way. I guess it’s his contribution to the community.”
Monica poured milk into her coffee. “Does he ever speak?”
“Wiley speaks only when it is really necessary, but I can tell you, he sees and listens to everything. And I mean everything!”
Back at the resort Pamela produced a sheaf of papers in a brown file folder. “Here’s the staff information you wanted. Have a look at them and then I’ll answer any questions that you have.”
“In my opinion,” said Monica tapping a sheet of paper in her hand a few minutes later, “the likelihood of this murder being committed by one of your junior staff is very remote.”
“Why?” asked Pamela.
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” explained Erin, “are the key elements of a murder. First of all, most crimes have their beginnings in the past, and all of your summer students have only been here a few weeks. Probably not long enough to develop an insatiable loathing towards a chef.”
“As far as the summer staff go, we have thirty students hired to help with the gardening, wash dishes, and act as waitresses and chamber maids. Now the full-time staff include Leo Nixon, the boatman who has been here for over five years, Jennifer Patterson who is head of housekeeping, and Sean Porter, the gardener and general laborer who has been here for six years. Iris is the sous chef and has been here since last summer. I also have a great assistant named Sally who started a few weeks back. Now for guests here at the resort we have Ida Matheson, a retired schoolteacher of sixty-five or so from Vermont who comes for one month each summer and has done so for years. Then we have Adrian Albertville who flew over from Vancouver, and also the Trimble family from Boston who are about forty, and their twin daughters who are about fifteen.”
“Not many guests for a well-known resort like this,” commented Monica.
“The weather network predicted this terrible storm and there were ten other guests who cancelled or changed their reservations at the last minute. Some of them were planning to listen to your Trash or Treasures speech, but a lot of people from town are still interested in coming to listen to you speak so we will have a pretty full house.”
Monica got up from her chair and walked towards the window. “Pamela, what about any friction between staff members. I am not talking about the younger students who were jealous of a girl or boy, but perhaps some bad blood between the older staff who have been here for years.”
Pamela thought for a moment. “I do hear the odd thing from time to time. Sometimes I hear the staff talking in the hall and they forget that my office is close by. There is and always has been a distinct frostiness between Bertha and Jennifer; snippy comments from Jennifer about how Bertha cooks a certain dish. I have never asked, but I think Jennifer sees herself as a better chef than Bertha is, or was, I should say.”
“Jealousy is a great motivator,” said Erin, “so can you call in Jennifer for us? We will have a little chat with her first.”
***
As Jennifer Patterson was preparing to walk over to the resort office through the rain for her chat with the two police-type women guests, Wiley was making a cup of tea in his beach hut. Sir Spots a Lot, his cat and only companion, watched him from the windowsill hoping that a piece of meat or fish might be offered from the depths of his master’s large waxed coat that almost reached the floor. Sadly, there was no treat that day. The tea, made from a bag used twice before, was Wiley’s midafternoon ritual in cool, rainy weather. However, today he was distracted. There was something running around in his head, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Sometimes things got fuzzy in his brain and unclear around the edges. Worst of all sometimes he forgot things. He was sure that he’d seen something last night that didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t recall it exactly. He put his finger on the calendar that was pinned to his wall. Yes, last night was the start of the terrible storm. He had, like he did every day, marked the weather in the date square of his calendar: a sun for good days, snowflakes for snowstorms, and grey clouds for rain. Yesterday he had even added a lightning bolt thanks to the ferocity of the storm.
The thing he was trying to recall had something to do with the resort. It had been raining so hard that seeing any details had been impossible, but something had seemed all wrong. He squeezed the tea bag with the back of his spoon, tossed it into the garbage and sat down in the old chair. He knew that if he left the puzzle alone, it would finally become clearer in his head.
***
Jennifer Patterson went through life with a permanently negative attitude. She had wrinkles from constantly frowning and a mouth that was turned downward in a scowl. If the sun was shining, she said rain was coming; if her husband gave her the exact Christmas gift she wanted; she decided that something else would have been better. And, unless you wanted a verbal tirade about the unfairness of life, the resort staff and Jennifer’s few friends learned never to mention the words cooking, chef, resort, and housekeeping in the same sentence. She was tall, slim, and uptight about everything in life. Even her graying hair, pulled back in a never changing bun on the back of her head, seemed impossibly tight and severe.
“What’s this all about then, and who are you two?” she demanded glaring at the two women in Pamela’s office.
After introductions, Monica said, “As you may have heard Mrs. Patterson, the chef Bertha Lundstrom has had a very bad accident, and Pamela has asked us, in the absence of any police here on the island at present to help with enquiries. We want to ask you a few questions.”
“Fine with me. Ask away, but are you policewomen?”
“We are connected to the police,” said Monica stretching the truth.
“Now, don’t you want to know what happened to Bertha?” asked Erin watching the woman’s face.
“No concern of mine. She managed the kitchen, and I was head of housekeeping. That’s just the way it worked out.”
“Worked out?” asked Erin cautiously.
“Not saying another word. She and I weren’t the best of friends. Everybody knows that.”
“Bertha Lundstrom is dead Mrs. Patterson. She was found last night after 8:00 pm dead in the storeroom of the resort,” said Monica angry at the woman’s lack of compassion of concern.
Both girls watched for a reaction, but Jennifer Patterson’s face didn’t change color, or contort in shock or surprise. Instead they both noticed the smallest smile appeared at the corner of her mouth and a brief twinkle in her eye. Both were gone in an instant.
“Storeroom. What on earth was she doing there? Well, I hope she is in a happier place.”
“Mrs. Patterson, where were you last night from about 7:00 pm to 8:30 pm?”
“Quilting session at the community center at 7:00 pm but it was a non-event. Mrs. Law and Mrs. Davis never showed up because of the storm. I went though. I never miss, and I stayed till around 8:00 pm.”
“So, nobody can vouch for you for that time frame?” asked Monica making notes on a pad of paper.
Jennifer Patterson was silent for a few moments, but finally she spoke. “Harry Warner, the night watchman at the marina, saw me after I left. I am almost sure. I waved at him as I walked past his hut. Harry has been night watchman at the marina for over twenty years. He is always there till 9:00 pm and to get back to my house at 21 Oakland Lane I have to walk past the marina gates.”
“It was pouring rain Mrs. Patterson,” suggested Erin, “so do you really think he saw you through the downpour?”
“How should I know, but I waved at him. Now is there anything else because I have to show some of those silly young summer students how to make a bed properly.”
“No, that is all for now anyway,” said Monica politely, escorting the woman out of the office.
Once in the hall, Jennifer Patterson unclenched her hands and hoped that the two women hadn’t noticed them shaking. She would have to tread very carefully.
***
Back in Pamela’s office, the Snoop Sister’s conferred about the interview. “She seems like a sour old lemon,” laughed Erin.
Monica agreed. “She didn’t seem the least bit interested in the details of Bertha’s death. Couldn’t have cared less, but when we told her about Bertha’s death, I did notice a tiny smile on her face.”
“I saw that too, and her eyes lit up. She certainly underplayed their poor relationship and skirted around that issue.”
“Well, based on what she just said about her movement’s yesterday evening, she was in the resort area last night. Look at this,” said Monica unfolding the map they had used for their excursion earlier. “The Community Center is here just past the general store. To get home, Jennifer would have to come out of the center, turn left on Gardiner Lane, walk past the marina gates and cross Temple Bridge to get to her place at 21 Oakland Lane.”
“And see where the resort is; right after the marina and just before Temple Bridge,” added Erin jabbing the map.
Yes, all she had to do was walk across the resort lawn, lure Bertha into the basement and kill her.”
“You make it sound so easy,” laughed Erin rolling her eyes and picking up her file folder, “but what I want to know is, what caused the friction between Bertha and Jennifer? There something going on there and it might be the most helpful information to indicate motive.”
“I am sure one of the other staff members can tell us, but that will have to wait. Tomorrow we give our talk on Trash or Treasure and I want to fine tune my intro.”
***
The thirty ladies and eleven men registered for the Trash or Treasure event chatted between sips of coffee and bites of Danish pastries and muffins in The Nantucket Room of the resort. Pamela was busy making sure everybody was registered and paid up, while Monica and Erin worked the crowd chatting and introducing themselves. Despite the rain and cooler temperatures, the turnout was excellent. At exactly 10:00 am, Monica approached the podium. She introduced herself and Erin, talked for a few moments about their former careers in the world of equestrian competitions and horse show jumping, and then their new careers as owners of Rocking Horse Antiques in Coppin’s Locks.
“As you will know from the information on our website and on the resort website, this is not an Antiques Roadshow event. We will not be evaluating your pictures, china or furniture. What we want to do today is to talk about how to spot an authentic and possibly valuable piece of furniture as opposed to a really well aged and reproduced piece. First of all, we will look at....”
“Is it true that somebody died here the other night?”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Monica, thinking she hadn’t heard the question correctly.
A short balding man of about sixty holding an umbrella in his hand stood up in the front row. “I asked if the rumors about a death were true.”
Monica looked over at Erin who was manning the laptop for the lecture pictures. She took was so taken aback at the question that her mouth hung slack and she was speechless.
“I think that the resort manager...” began Monica just as Pamela walked up from the back of the room to stand at the podium beside her.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I regret to inform you that the other night our dear head chef Bertha Lundstrom suffered a heart attack and has sadly passed on. I have not made a formal statement because I didn’t want to upset people.”
The room erupted as people gasped and turned to talk to their friends and others seated beside them.
“Please, please. Let us allow the girls to continue with their fascinating talk, Trash or Treasure. Bertha’s demise will not interfere with the day to day running of the resort. Bertha loved this place and would want us to continue on as usual.”
The mumbling and talk subsided and after a few moments Monica took up her lecture again, but she could see that many people’s thoughts were elsewhere despite looking at her.
Four hours and one coffee break later Monica and Erin closed the lecture and thanked everybody for coming.
“We will be here for a few minutes to answer any questions,” said Monica, “and Pamela has brought out more food and coffee for those who have developed an appetite and a thirst talking about dusty, old antiques.”
A few people laughed at the humor and began to cluster around the long food table for a last bite of food. Out of the corner of her eye Erin saw Iris, the sous chef, placing a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table and a few minutes later a plate of homemade donuts. She sidled over to the plate and grabbing two.
A commotion in one corner grabbed everybody’s attention. Erin heard the undeniable sounds of somebody retching and then a loud thump. People rushed over to a prone figure on the floor. An elderly woman lay on her side clutching her throat and making gasping noises. Some of the onlookers moved away quickly and others seemed rooted to the spot staring at the poor woman.
Monica and Erin went to her side and tried to comfort her while Pamela asked everybody to leave the room, ushering the group out before closing the door behind her.
“What’s your name?” Erin asked, gently holding the woman’s hand in hers and stroking it while Monica looked in the woman’s purse for some medications. The woman choked and her eyes rolled back in her head for a brief moment.
“Look at me,” urged Erin quietly. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Law. Mrs. Jean Law,” gasped the woman weakly.
“Ah yes, Mrs. Law. You are a quilting friend of Jennifer Patterson’s, aren’t you? She went to meet you at the quilting session the other night but the storm....”
As Erin watched, the woman’s head frantically began to move from left to right. “No,” she said in a voice that was getting frighteningly faint. Erin leaned over to hear the woman better. “Alone. No Jenn...”
Mrs. Jean Law took one long shuddering breath and her head lolled to the left. Erin looked up at Monica and slowly shook her head. Mrs. Jean Law’s quilt depicting the historical lighthouse of Indian Island would remain unfinished.
***
“I can’t believe this is happening,” gasped Pamela kneeling on the floor beside the quickly cooling body of Mrs. Jean Law. “The resort is going to be ruined when people hear about another death.”
“Pamela, I think you will find that poor Mrs. Law died of natural causes; probably a heart attack or stroke. Is the ambulance coming?”
“Yes, they should be here any minute.”
“Right, well before they get here Monica and I will take some photos like we did with Bertha.”
Pamela nodded in understanding, but her glazed eyes showed that she was unable to fully process another death at her resort.
Later that evening over dinner the girls declared the event a success despite the very unfortunate death of old Mrs. Law. Pamela, looking haggard and worn out, came over to talk to them as they sat sipping their wine.
“I am going to have to tell the staff and guests the truth behind Bertha’s death. I certainly won’t go into details, but we can hardly start quizzing people about a death unless something is suspicious and serious.”
“You’ve got that right. Be ready for a lot of questions and figure out what you are going to say beforehand.”
“Good advice ladies,” said Pamela, “I will call a meeting later for the staff and the guests to break the news. Thanks so much for the help. There is no way I could have dealt with all this myself. By the way, how was the chat with Jennifer?”
Monica looked at Erin and shrugged. “She seems a little bitter about something and didn’t give two hoots that Bertha had died. I almost got the impression she was happy.”
“Yes, she is a bit of a sourpuss,” agreed Pamela, “but she can clean a room like nobody else and when the girls leave here at the end of summer, they can clean a bathroom till it sparkles and make a bed without one wrinkle. Her garden is her passion and her husband Gerald was a botanist. Together they created a wonderful garden at their home after his retirement.”
***
“I am sure Mrs. Law said, ‘alone’ today just before she died when I mentioned the quilting session with Jennifer Patterson,” said Erin as she got ready for bed later that evening.
Monica considered this for a moment. “That’s odd because Jennifer clearly said that she showed up and there was nobody else there at the community center.”
“Oh, maybe I heard her wrong,” admitted Erin brushing her long red hair.”
“Or maybe Jennifer was telling a lie,” suggested Monica, “which reminds me that we will have to check with Harry the guard to see if he really did see Jennifer walking past the marina gates that night.”
“I spoke to Leo the boatman this afternoon and he is next on the list for an interview,” said Erin, “but he lives out at Lost Point, so we will have to take a golf cart tomorrow and pray for better weather. It’s his day off, so he said he’d be at home waiting for us.”
The following day was blustery and black clouds were moving swiftly across the skies to the north of the island. With clear directions from Pamela and a well-marked map, Monica and Erin left the resort after a hearty breakfast to find Leo’s small cottage. They drove through town past the coffee shop, shops and the church, until they came to the narrow sand covered road to Leo’s cottage. The stone cottage was a half mile from the town center and a plume of smoke curled around the chimney in the tin roof. Flowers ran alongside the stone wall and for a moment Erin imagined that she was back in Ireland at her grandmother’s fieldstone home.
Leo answered the door, offered them tea, and just as he was setting the tray on the table in front of the sofa, the front door opened, and a tall woman entered the room, her blond hair a whirling mass thanks to the wind. She slammed the door behind her, took off her long grey raincoat, and in a French accent said, “Aha, the detectives from the resort. You finally made it to our humble home to grill Leo I see.”
“Oh, not grilling, I assure you,” laughed Erin eyeing the homemade cookies on the plate beside the large brown tea pot. “We just want to find out where people were on the night of Bertha’s death.”
“Yes, Pamela told the staff that her death is suspicious. Very sad. She was a good cook. Now, Abella, meet Monica and Erin. Abella is my partner. Came to the island five years ago. We met on the marina dock, fell in love with it and here we are.”
“This is an amazing island,” said Monica, “and I can see why anybody would love it here. How long have you lived here, Leo?”
“I have lived here for eleven years, and I have been at the resort about five or six. I came initially to open a shop in town selling marine and boating supplies, but there were not enough clients for three similar stores, so I found a job at the resort managing the boat rentals, the maintenance and repairs. So far so good.”
“Abella, do you mind if I ask what you do?”
“I write eBooks on French cooking. I studied at the Cordon Bleu cooking school in France and worked at some good restaurants and hotels. There were no jobs here on the island, so I turned my hand to writing eBooks instead of whipping eggs.”
“Fascinating,” said Erin who loved food in any form and especially rich French cooking.
“Did you ever apply at the resort?” asked Erin.
Abella shrugged. “I did mail Bertha and Pamela my resume a few times but for some reason somebody else was always chosen as sous chef.”
“Personally, I think Bertha felt threatened. Abella has some very, very high-profile restaurants on her resume,” said Leo proudly flashing a smile at his lady love.
“Leo, do you mind if I ask what you were doing the night Bertha died?” asked Monica wanting to get the interview over before the weather got worse outside.
“Funnily enough, I was here with Abella watching a DVD of The Perfect Storm. You know, that movie with George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg about a bunch of fishermen who....”
“Yes, we know it,” laughed Monica, “great movie, but it put me off going out in boats for a long time.”
“So, you two were here together from...?”
“Leo got home around 5:30 from the resort,” said Abella, “and I was making a Scottish soup called Cullen Skink made with smoked fish and potatoes.”
“Did you notice any friction or problems between Bertha and other staff members?” asked Erin putting the thought of a delicious warm soup out of her mind.
“Bertha stuck to herself really. She did her job, didn’t socialize with the rest of the staff much. She was a loner and I think it made her seem aloof. She seemed to know everybody else’s business though.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Monica sensing a shred of tension in the comment.
“Oh, nothing. Stupid thing to say,” said Leo with a nonchalant shrug.
“Are you suggesting that she was a nosey parker,” laughed Erin, “and always poking into people’s business.”
Leo was quiet for a few second sipping his tea. It was clear to Monica that he regretted his comment and was trying to think of a way to diffuse it. Finally, he spoke. “Well she just seemed to be around at the wrong times. It was uncanny how she’d just show up at the most inopportune oddest times.”
“Elle ramène toujours sa fraise,” said Monica suddenly looking at Abella.
“What?” said Abella with a frown and then laughed and quickly added, “Yes, yes, something like that. Now who wants more tea?”
“Well, thanks so much for your time. Erin, it is time we left,” said Monica grabbing her cane and standing up. “I think it is going to rain again very soon and the sand will be getting heavy for driving.”
As two girls drove away in the golf cart Leo turned to Abella. “So, how do you think that went?”
“Not bad, but since I am your alibi how can they refute it?” she answered with all traces of her French accent gone.
Leo grimaced. “If they start digging, they might uncover where we really were that night.”
“So, what do you think?” Erin asked Monica as they drove away.
“Lying twice,” came the blunt reply.
“Really? How do you know?”
“First of all, I said something in French to Abella and she didn’t have a clue what I said. When Leo made the comment about Bertha knowing other people’s business, I said to Abella, ‘Elle ramène toujours sa fraise’ which is a silly French expression referring to somebody who always sticks their nose into a conversation uninvited. Her face went blank, and she suddenly got very interested in offering us more tea. Next did you notice their DVD player beside the TV? There was no way they watched a movie the other night because that machine was covered in dust.”
“You have the eyes of a hawk,” laughed Erin, “but why are they lying? What are they hiding?”
“I think that Leo’s remark about how Bertha would just show up at the oddest times was very telling.”
“Maybe Bertha knew something or saw something and was holding it over Leo’s head. Or Abella’s. But what?” said Erin squinting her eyes against the rain that had started to fall with increasing ferocity. The downpour was falling sideways in sheets and the girls were getting wet despite their raincoats. They could see the outskirts of the town, but it was still far off when the golf cart suddenly died and stopped.
“Too much wet in the motor I guess,” said Monica bleakly, “I guess we will have to walk from here.”
“What? You walk through this heavy sand with your leg? I say we stay with the cart for a while to see if the storm passes.”
The storm showed no signs of abating and ten minutes later the girls were soaked to the skin, shivering with cold, and thoroughly miserable. Suddenly through the driving grey rain a tall figure loomed ahead of them. The apparition was wearing a long coat and a large hat that dripped water from the brim. Long wet tendrils of grey stringy hair whipped about the person’s face.
“Wiley,” gasped Erin, “We haven’t met properly. I am Erin, and this is my friend Monica.”
“Come,” said Wiley to the girls before turning and walking away.
“What do we do?” gasped Erin turning to Monica.
“Take our chances and go with him. Anything is better than this.”
The girls struggled against the wind and rain, Erin helping Monica through the sand that made walking difficult for a person with two good legs, but almost impossible for a person with an injury like Monica’s.
Wiley faded in and out of view as fog rolled in and Erin urged Monica on, not wanting to lose sight of their strange savior. A small building emerged through the gloom and when they got to it Wiley opened the door and ushered the girls inside where they stood breathless from cold and exhaustion. The heat from a small wood stove was like heaven after the foul weather outside and the wood fire snapped and crackled invitingly. Wiley took off his dripping coat and hat, hung them on a nail behind the door and indicated that the girls should do the same. He then opened a large trunk beside a rickety chair and dug out two blankets that he handed to them. Sir Spots a Lot, sitting on the windowsill, blinked a few times and returned to his purring and paw cleaning.
Erin ushered Monica into the chair knowing that her leg would be throbbing with pain after the damp and the exertion of walking through heavy sand. She then sat beside the small stove on the floor and wrapped the blanket around her closely. A few minutes later Wiley handed each of the girls a steaming cup of tea.
“Oh, thank you,” they said in unison sipping the tea gratefully.
“Wiley, how did you know we were stuck out there?” asked Monica after a few minutes.
“Saw you go towards Leo’s. Knew the drifting sand would be a problem with the storm,” answered Wiley.
“We can’t thank you enough,” said Erin who had stopped shivering. “I think we would have been in real trouble if we had stayed out there much longer.”
“Wiley is that the resort?” asked Monica pointing to an old black and white photograph standing in a frame on the table.
“Yes. Mid 1950s. Found in a box there.”
“Did you work at the resort?” asked Erin.
“One summer. Painted the outside.”
Suddenly Wiley gasped, and both girls looked at him. He was staring at the photo intently. The door. It was coming back to him.
“You have to go,” he said suddenly, “time to go. Here’s the phone. Call the resort. Sean will bring the four-wheeler.”
Monica looked at Erin and shrugged. Wiley had gone from being a pleasant albeit slightly strange host to a man who couldn’t wait to get rid of them. He seemed agitated and upset. What had they done or said to set him off? thought Monica.
Fifteen minutes later the roar of a machine signaled Sean’s arrival and the girls put on their wet raincoats, thanked Wiley and walked outside into the cold and rain. Wiley didn’t acknowledge their departure but stood staring outside the window into the dusk with thoughts whirling around in his head. It was wrong. The door was all wrong. The storeroom door that had been closed for years, the door that had no key had been standing wide open.
