Final Settlement (6 page)

“Donny Pease, is that you?”

He turned his eyes toward the shrieks and threw the truck into park. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s me! Bitsy Carmichael. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Donny!” She’d stopped and turned to face the truck, her white fur reminding him of the polar bears he saw on the Nature Channel. “Bitsy, from Quarry Road.” She gave a naughty chuckle. “And the homecoming dance?”

Christ Almighty
. Donny inhaled sharply and peered at the blonde’s reddened face. Was this truly the youngest, shortest, and most obnoxious of the seven Carmichael girls? The one named “Betsy” but always called “Bitsy” because of her stature?

“Bitsy! What in the world brings you back to Hurricane Harbor?”

She threw a penetrating stare in his direction. “Why, this is my home, Donny.” She shivered and looked at the truck with longing. “I’m freezing my butt off. Give me a lift to my house?”

He opened his cab door and trotted around the truck, minding the ice as he did so. She stood with her hands on her hips, making little stomping movements in an attempt to generate warmth. Her blonde hair looked brittle up close, as if it would crack like a bunch of skinny icicles between his fingers.

“Bitsy.” Donny stood awkwardly. Did he hug her? Kiss her? What exactly did one do in situations like this? He hefted the two zebra-striped suitcases up and placed them in the bed of the truck.

“Why, you picked up those bags like they were nothing,” she gushed. “Looks like I brought a lot, but I am planning on staying, maybe for good.”

Donny felt his mouth grow dry. This was a turning point in the island’s history, he just knew it. Later, he would look back and see that this moment, when he decided to give Bitsy Carmichael a ride, was significant. But what could he do right now, standing here like a fool in the single-digit temperatures? He couldn’t exactly dump her in the harbor, now could he? The image of Lorraine Delvecchio’s sodden corpse came to mind, giving him a sick sensation in his gut. He swallowed and yanked open the truck’s passenger door.

Bitsy looked at the truck’s floor and back at her little stomping feet. Donny’s stomach tightened.
She can’t climb in without a boost.
Not with those little legs, even with the ridiculously high-heeled boots she was trying to walk in. This was never a problem for Tina, who was long-legged and strong as a man, not to mention stubborn. Even if Tina were a short gal, she’d find a way to climb in herself, he was sure of that.

Not Bitsy.

“Now, don’t be bashful, Donny. Give me a push right on the rear end.”

He frowned.
Just keep your hands on her sides
, he told himself.
You’re safe if you stay on the sides
…

Donny licked his lips and rested his hands lightly on her hips. She had a deep, musky scent—not unpleasant, but noticeable. Taking a breath, he shoved the fur-clad figure forward, maybe a tad too forcefully. Bitsy squealed and popped into the cab like a cork. Before she could utter a word, he’d slammed her door shut and marched around the vehicle to the driver’s side.

“Thank God it’s warm in here,” Bitsy Carmichael breathed as he settled into his seat. “I’m not used to the cold anymore.”

Donny gave a vague nod. Two days before his wedding and he was with the girl who’d been his first love. He felt that sick, sinking feeling again.
Please God, don’t let her bring it up.

He concentrated on where he was headed with Bitsy. “N-no Carmichaels live on Quarry Road these days,” he stuttered. In fact, did any Carmichaels live anywhere on Hurricane Harbor?

“I know that, silly,” she said softly. “Most of my sisters are dead, and the two that aren’t live out of state.” She gave him a bright smile. “I’m going home, to
my
house.”

Suddenly he recognized the real danger of Bitsy Carmichael’s reappearance. How could he have been so stupid, focusing only on that part of her past history that involved him?
Because you’re a sixty-year-old fool
, he chastised himself.
You’ve got an ego the size of Baxter State Park.

“Middle Road.” Her voice had a brittle edge to it. “Before it’s absolutely pitch black, if you don’t mind.”

Donny crept forward, up the hill and past the Hurricane Harbor Inn, his stomach churning with anxiety. “Does he know?” he asked carefully. “Does the …”

“He’ll find out.” The clipped words showed no trace of the coy tone she’d used earlier. Donny drove on, hoping he would not need to pull over and lose his lunch.

FOUR

D
ARBY WALKED UP THE
path to a tidy little cape. A new home, it had been constructed on a small patch of land that Darby remembered as an empty, weedy lot. Inside, twinkling indoor lights cast a welcoming glow, despite the cold and darkness.

She turned to see the view from the front of the house. The Breakwater was visible, but it was too far to see much of anything. Why had the woman who’d answered her last phone call invited Darby to visit?
Probably just looking for company
, Darby thought.

She sighed and knocked on the door. Jet lag was beginning to take its toll.

A tall woman wearing a cabled sweater in a soft blue color answered immediately. She peered at Darby through round glasses and then smiled.

“You must be Darby. Come in, come in. I’m Alison Dyer. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” Darby entered, then removed her boots and looked around. The home was snug, furnished in a relaxed country style with a fire crackling in the hearth. Darby moved instinctively toward its warmth. “This is a lovely little place.”

“Thank you. Please, sit down.” Alison indicated a wing-backed chair by the fireplace. “May I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just brewed some, and I’m afraid I don’t drink anything stronger than that.”

“Tea would be wonderful.”

Darby glanced up at the fireplace mantel where a painting of several ornate townhouses, reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans, graced the wall. Looking around Darby noted another painting, this one of a jazz band, and another depicting a sleepy bayou.

Alison Dyer bustled into the room with a black tray holding a small teapot, two china cups, and a plate of sugar cookies. She set it on a small table and took a seat.

“I’m pouring you an unusual tea that has become one of my favorites,” Alison said, as the steaming liquid flowed from the teapot into the cups. Darby inhaled and caught the scents of hibiscus, apple, and orange.

“It smells heavenly.” She picked up the cup and sniffed.
Rosehips
. A taste revealed another surprise—the flavor of rhubarb cream. She took another tiny sip. “Delicious.”

“I love this particular tea.” Alison lifted her cup and drank. “Although technically it isn’t a tea, but a tisane.” She smiled. “It’s definitely one of my favorite kinds, and it has an interesting name.”

Darby’s next taste gave her the final clue. “It’s Blue Eyes, isn’t it?”

“Why yes.” Alison put down her china cup and looked at Darby, astonished. “I’m surprised that you know it. You’ve had it before, then?”

“Only once, with a British friend.” She thought quickly of Miles and felt her cheeks grow warm again. “The taste that I remembered as being so distinctive is the cornflower, and of course that’s partly where the tea gets its name.”

“Of course.”

Alison was clearly startled by her identification of the herbal tea, not knowing Darby possessed an unusual gift: a remarkable palate memory. She stared intently, until the young woman felt compelled to change the subject.

“Did you purchase the tea on one of your trips to New Orleans?”

“Ah, my artwork has given me away. Yes, there is a wonderful tearoom in the French Quarter called Royal Blend Coffee and Tea House. I make it a point to visit there and stock up whenever I’m in New Orleans.”

“You go there often, then?”

Alison nodded. “I’m involved with a group helping to build low-
income housing. I head down to Louisiana probably four or five times a year.” She took a sip. “It was one of the two big things I wanted to do in my retirement. I’m a former college professor—English literature.” She smiled. “The shelves of books in my den would have revealed that part of my past, I’m afraid.”

Darby grinned. “Tell me about your other passion. You said you had two.”

“Come with me and I’ll show you. Bring your tea if you’d like.”

She led Darby into the kitchen of the cape, a small but functional space with the usual appliances and a large picture window overlooking a yard dotted with birdfeeders. A round café-style table was placed in front of the window, two chairs on either side. In the distance, Darby could dimly make out the shape of the jutting Manatuck Breakwater.

“This is my baby,” Alison said, pointing to a device that looked like a small telescope. It lay on a wooden table in the corner by the window. She picked it up reverently.

“It’s a spotting scope, made by Zeiss,” she whispered. “I waited two years before I’d let myself spend the money and get it.” She gave a wicked grin. “It cost thousands of dollars, but it’s worth every darn penny, I’ll tell you that.”

“It must be amazing for bird watching,” Darby said, wishing it weren’t dark so she could test the spotting scope herself.

“You wouldn’t believe it!” Alison set the instrument down. “I take it with me on my birding excursions, but it’s also great to look at the wildlife right here.” Behind the round glasses, her blue eyes were keen. “And of course, keep track of the action on the Breakwater.”

Darby gazed into the darkness, feeling her heart beat a little faster. “Tell me more. Did you see something unusual yesterday?”

Alison lifted her eyebrows. “This is where I have lunch,” she said, indicating the round table with a sweep of her arm. “I make myself something and sit down at 11:45 on the dot.” She pointed to a clock hanging above the table. “I’m a punctual person, and I like to keep my schedule the same whenever possible.”

Darby nodded. She loved people who had strict routines.

Alison touched one of the chairs. “I sit right here, facing the Breakwater, and I watch for the Walking Lady to appear at noon.” She smiled, a little sadly. “That’s what I called her, the Walking Lady. I never knew her name, but she showed up every day like clockwork. Not today, though. Now I know it was that poor girl, Lorraine Delvecchio.” She looked down at her hands. “What a terrible accident.”

“Did you see Lorraine yesterday?”

“Yes, same as usual. I was waiting for my bowl of minestrone to cool, so I picked up my scope, and I watched her climb up onto the blocks and start off. By now I know her walking style, too. She kind of swings her arms a little, to get her heart pumping, you know?” Alison swung her arms forcefully to demonstrate. “And she takes fairly long strides, for a woman.”

Darby nodded. “Did you see her when she reached the end of the Breakwater? When she slipped?”

“Of course not! If I had, I would have called someone to rescue her.” Alison’s indignant attitude gave way to regret. “Although I don’t suppose it would have mattered, that water is so darn cold.” She sighed. “No, I didn’t see her get to the end of the seawall, because my phone rang and I got up to answer it. Some telemarketer, trying to get me to go see a time share in Bar Harbor. By the time I returned, she was walking back.”

“Walking back?” Darby’s tone was sharp.

“Well, I assumed it was Lorraine. Whoever it was wore black clothes, just like Lorraine—but I did think it was strange.”

“What?”

“She wasn’t moving the same way. Her steps were much shorter, and her arms weren’t swinging. They were like this, kind of close and tight to her body.” Alison held her arms bent at the elbow in a 45 degree angle, almost like a boxer or runner would. “I thought it was odd, so I looked through the scope.”

Darby’s heart was pounding. Could this be the clue the Chief was looking for?

“And what did you see, Alison?”

“One of those creepy masks, the kind people put on to rob banks. Ski masks, I think they’re called.”

“Had you ever noticed Lorraine wearing something like that?”

She shook her head. “No.” A moment passed while Alison seemed to be composing her words. “There is something else that’s kind of odd. When I sat down here at 11:45 with my bowl of soup, there was already someone on the Breakwater. They were about halfway down.” She paused. “They were also dressed in black.”

“Did you see a ski mask?”

“I’m not sure. There might have been one. I couldn’t tell because they weren’t facing me.” She glanced at Darby, her countenance showing concern. “I didn’t think anything about this at the time, but now I’m wondering if I should talk to the police.”

Darby put her hand on Alison’s arm and gave a light squeeze. “Yes, I think you should speak with them as soon as possible. I think they’ll find your information helpful.” She thought of the implications of what Alison Dyer had seen—someone else on the Breakwater, someone who had perhaps hidden by the lighthouse, waiting for Lorraine Delvecchio to arrive.