Final Settlement (5 page)

A noise from the kitchen startled him. A high-pitched screech, almost like the sound he’d heard as a boy emanating from the factories in his Ohio hometown. He paused, remembering the smokestacks and the waves of men who would exit the long buildings, hurrying home to their wives and children.

It was the teakettle whistling, letting him know that his water had boiled. He made his way back to the kitchen and fixed a cup of strong black Oolong. He uncapped the whiskey, smelled its bitter scent, and added a splash to the steaming liquid.

Clutching the mug and moving slowly, Alcott Bridges stumbled toward a closed door. He opened it, and peered inside his studio.

The space was chilly. The old man entered anyway, lurching past completed paintings until he reached a wide easel holding his work in progress. To the untrained eye, it was a jumble of blocks, painted various hues of gray. Upon closer inspection, one could see that the blocks composed a pier with an aging lighthouse at the end.
The Manatuck Breakwater
. Alcott Bridges gazed at it and gave a small nod. It wasn’t quite finished, but he knew already it was one of his finest works.

He pulled his attention from the painting and shuffled out of the studio, continuing through the kitchen and toward the bathroom. Once there, he turned off the water, slid out of his clothes, and eased into the tub. When his tea cooled a little he would sip it, and while the warm water soaked the harbor chill from his bones, the whiskey would help him forget.

_____

Darby watched Chief Dupont climb into his police car and back slowly out of the driveway. She checked her watch, wondering if the Hurricane Harbor Library’s hours were the same as when she’d lived here as a child. If that were true, she had a half hour until closing time.
A half-hour to research on the Internet until I get my own connection,
she thought. She grabbed her laptop, a pad of paper and pen, and headed out the door.

Once at the library, she accessed the city of Manatuck’s website, quickly finding a map showing both the Manatuck Breakwater and its nearby neighbors. Along the shore facing the jetty were a number of homes, as well as a small condominium development
with several oceanfront units. Within minutes Darby had jotted down the property owners’ names and addresses. In the local phone book, she found all but one number, and that property was a piece of vacant land.

Back at the farmhouse, she began calling the numbers. She’d decided to say she was putting together some data on the lighthouse, and ask people whether they favored its restoration or not. She figured that once they began talking about the lighthouse, the question of whether or not each owner could see the end of the Breakwater could naturally be raised.

Darby hoped to find someone with a clear view, someone who had seen something strange happen at noon the day before.

Her first call was to a pleasant woman with a Boston-accented voice who said that she greatly supported the lighthouse restoration, and had sent in a generous check only two weeks prior. Darby quickly thanked her and then inquired innocently whether she had a nice view of the lighthouse from her antique Cape.

“No,” the woman said, a hint of regret in her voice. “Years ago, I suppose whomever lived here had an excellent view, but now those tall cedars block it, even in the winter.” She paused. “My one consolation is that those same cedars give me privacy, and they’re so pretty when they’re snow-covered.” A long sigh. “That’s something, I guess.”

Darby called another number. A man with a gruff tone said yes indeed, he could see the Breakwater and the lighthouse just perfectly. Darby felt her pulse quicken. “Did you happen to see anyone walking the Breakwater yesterday at noon?”

“Noon? No. I meet some of the fellows at the coffee shop on Main Street for lunch every day.” He paused. “Damn shame about the Delvecchio girl. Must’ve slipped on the ice is what I figure.”

Darby thanked him for his time and hung up. She’d called everyone on the list, except one number, and no one had been looking out their windows when Lorraine Delvecchio had taken her fateful walk.

She sighed and pondered her next move.
Maybe actually going to the Breakwater would help,
she thought. She glanced outside at the gray afternoon, slowly becoming dusk. It would be cold on the ferry …

Stop it
, she chided herself.
You’re becoming one of those wimpy Californians who’re afraid of a little chill in the air
. She reached in her suitcase and pulled a warm sweater out and over her head.
I’ll make this last call and then head to the harbor.

_____

Blonde Bitsy Carmichael rolled her mascara-accented eyes, drumming her pudgy fingers on the taxicab’s window.

“We there yet?” Her voice was high, almost singsong-y, as if she were auditioning for a musical part that she wasn’t going to get. The cabbie, a tall Ethiopian immigrant whose command of English was still improving, wiggled a shaggy head. Bitsy exhaled in disgust. He’d been nodding gleefully at everything and anything she said, all the way from Portland.

I could tell you it was friggin’ eighty degrees outside and sunny and you’d nod your foolish noggin,
she thought. She frowned out the window.

The sky was a battleship gray color, and everything had that hunkered-down look she remembered of Maine winters. Not much snow to speak of—Bitsy had expected more—and what there was lay scattered in frozen patches on the iron-hard ground.

The cab whizzed by a diner with a black and red neon sign from the 1950s and Bitsy had a stab of recognition.
Miller’s
, the place with the rude waitresses, sinful fruit pies, and impossibly long lines come summer. She allowed herself to smile. It had been a favorite destination for her and Chuck. The ferry from the island, and then the ride to Miller’s. Maybe a stop or two at some antiques shops, and then the comfortable drive and ferry ride back home. Such a simple way to spend an afternoon, and yet it had been so satisfying.

When had those outings turned from delightful to deadly? Bitsy couldn’t pinpoint the moment. It had been a gradual creeping of dissatisfaction, like a coastal fog, that had insinuated its way into their marriage.
Well, maybe not the marriage
, Bitsy admitted.
Just me.

She glanced at her watch, a tiny diamond-encrusted face on a thin gold band. Four o’ clock. She’d just make the ferry, if the driver hustled. And if he didn’t, she’d be sitting for another hour in Mana-tuck. She pulled a twenty dollar bill from her wallet and waved it in his rearview mirror. “Faster,” she urged him, jiggling the bill as an enticement.

He smiled and bobbed his head. A reassuring increase in the cab’s speed gave Bitsy hope. Perhaps this time her eager driver had understood.

_____

The village of Hurricane Harbor consisted of a tiny shingled office that sold tickets for the ferry, a café, a bar, and the impressive Hurricane Harbor Inn, an old wooden structure with wide porches and, in the summer, rocking chairs that invited guests to pause and relax. The bar’s weathered sign read The Eye of the Storm, but locals just called it “The Eye.” Likewise, the Hurricane Harbor Café, which sold flavored coffee and pastries, sandwiches and potato chips, was known simply as “the Café.”

Darby walked briskly by these familiar landmarks, intent on catching the ferry and keeping warm at the same time. She met the eyes of the ticket seller, who waved her toward the waiting boat. “Buy your ticket over to the other side,” he yelled, opening the door but a crack. “I’m already closed up for the day.”

Darby stepped on the slick walkway and climbed gingerly onto the ferry. Unlike the warmer months, when the outside seating areas were full of camera-toting tourists, the decks in February were bare of riders. Two ferry workers scurried about, untying lines and stowing fenders, while the captain waited patiently to begin backing up the vessel. Darby did not envy them their jobs in the frigid cold. She hurried inside to the heated cabin and took a seat by a window.

A mother and a baby sat across from her, the baby so bundled it looked like a plump fleece sausage. The woman smiled at Darby, a quick smile of pride, and continued rocking the child and humming a tuneless little song.

The boat gave a small lurch and began backing away from the dock. Darby remembered countless rides on this ferry—trips to go school shopping with her mother, journeys to the Manatuck boatyard with her dad. She remembered, too, the night she stole her Aunt Jane Farr’s truck and drove it onto the ferry to Manatuck, beginning a painful solo ride to the West Coast and a new life.

She closed her eyes. The events of the past few months—coming back to Hurricane Harbor and facing Jane just before she died; meeting Tina, who had been her aunt’s capable assistant; and making peace with her parents’ disappearance in a sailing accident—all this had happened so recently that Darby had not yet adjusted. Just when she’d thought the difficult work was behind her, she’d discovered information regarding her Japanese grandfather and his involvement in World War II atrocities. None of it had been easy.

She opened her eyes and regarded her reflection in the boat’s window. Long, straight black hair, parted simply down the middle, and a heart-shaped face with a little bow mouth. According to Chief Dupont, she resembled her mother, Jada Farr. Darby sighed, wondering when she would see wrinkles around her gently curved eyes, and tried to remember her mother’s lovely face.
But she had died so young
…

Darby shook off the sadness and thought about the task at hand. The ferry would dock in Manatuck a good mile from the Break-water. She’d grab a taxi, ask the driver to return in an hour’s time, and canvass the Breakwater neighborhood. Perhaps someone would know something about Lorraine Delvecchio’s last walk.

Fifteen minutes later, the ferry docked in Manatuck, and Darby emerged into the dim light. The gray-shingled ferry terminal was surrounded by a jaunty white picket fence, although the effect was not as cheery as in warmer weather. Darby knew that her Aunt Jane had helped fund the building’s construction, which had once been little more than a shack.

A yellow taxicab pulled up before the terminal and a sturdy blonde in a white mink stepped out. Darby watched as the driver removed two enormous zebra-printed suitcases from the trunk. The blonde woman paid him, and turned to wheel her luggage toward the ferry. Darby flagged the driver and asked if he was free to take a new passenger. The cabbie, a tall dark man with a big smile, nodded enthusiastically and Darby climbed in.

_____

Half an hour later, Donny Pease glanced up from his beer and out one of the bar’s grimy windows and did a double-take. Marching past Hurricane Harbor’s local hangout was a short woman with platinum blonde hair, pulling two large suitcases behind her. The wheels on her luggage were slipping on the road’s icy surface, and Donny expected that at any moment the woman would slide as well. Although only five o’ clock, the sky was rapidly darkening and slick spots would be difficult to see. He groaned and fished several dollars out of his pocket.

“Where you headed?” asked Earl, the new bartender at The Eye.

Donny jerked his head in the direction of the window. “Some fool’s out there trying to walk up to the Inn with her luggage,” he said. “Figure I’ll jump on my white horse and go rescue her before she falls and gets her fur coat all dirty.”

Earl wiped a beer glass and snorted. “Is Tina aware you’re rescuing damsels in distress?”

“Nah. She’s Little Miss Real Estate Agent now. Too busy to know what I’m doing.” It came out harsher than he intended, but Earl didn’t seem to notice.

“Tell her I’m looking for some land when you get a chance. Woods, maybe with a little farm pond. Course I don’t have much to spend …”

Donny nodded, knowing he’d forget to give Tina this hot lead. He grabbed his jacket off the adjacent barstool. “See you later.”

“Saturday, right? For the big day?”

Again Donny nodded. He still wasn’t sure just who Tina had invited to their wedding.
Guess I’ll find out when I get there,
he thought.

Outside, the temperature was dropping, and Donny zipped up his jacket as he hopped into his truck. He scanned the street and spotted the woman and her bulky striped bags. He started the engine and turned the heat on full blast.

“Care for a ride to the Inn?” He’d slowed down and lowered the window, hoping the woman didn’t think he was a stalker or something.

“I’m not going to the Inn,” she snapped, keeping her eyes on the icy road.

“Well, where are you going? I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

She slid her eyes toward the truck suspiciously. “Yeah, I’m sure you would.”

Donny felt the color rise to his cheeks. Of all the nerve! “Listen lady, I was just trying to be nice. Have it your way. Hoof it to wherever the heck you’re going, and slip on that ice to boot.”

He was about to rev the motor and speed down the street when he heard an ungodly squeal, like the sound a pig makes when it starts to panic.

“Don-eee?”

The sound was coming from the blonde woman, and it sounded a lot like his name.