Mortar and Murder (3 page)

“Not a rat. We don’t have rats.” At least we’d better not. “I think the legs were longer. And I didn’t notice much of a tail.”

“Hare? They’re gray. With white stubby tails.”

“Maybe. Although it didn’t hop.”

“We’ll find out,” Derek said. “If it lives under there, it’ll be back.”

“True.” And wouldn’t that be lovely?

The distraction of the blue gray furry thing—and the fact that Derek had been jumping up and down on the porch—had alleviated one of my fears, anyway. If it could hold him, surely it could hold me. I crept up the steps while Derek fumbled in his pocket for the key. He turned to the heavy front door. While he wrestled with it, he gave me a crash course in architecture, most of which I knew already—from mandatory architecture classes at Parsons School of Design—but some of which was new to me.

“The center-chimney Colonial is the first distinctive housing style in New England. It started out as a very simple one-story design: two rooms around a central chimney. Then it got expanded to one-over-one: two stories, four rooms. Three bays wide.”

“Bays?”

“Doors and windows.” He grunted, trying to turn the key in the lock. “This house is five bays wide. Center door, two windows on each side. That style came later. After 1750, say. And we’ve got two stories. Plus an attic. And a tight run-around staircase. That, there.”

He pushed the protesting door open and pointed. I nodded, stifling a moan.

It wasn’t the staircase so much. The staircase was fine, really. Narrow and cramped, yes, sort of doubling back on itself, but compared to some of the other features, not a big deal. Quite attractive, really.

The floors were wide planks, and if they’d ever been sanded and polyurethaned, it wasn’t in my lifetime. The windows were small and deep set—and dirty and broken—and the light filtering in was pale and weak. It didn’t help that the ceilings were low and made the rooms seem even darker. At least in Aunt Inga’s 1870s Victorian cottage, the ceilings had been ten feet tall. Here, they looked like they’d brush the top of Derek’s head once he started walking around. I made a mental note: no hanging light fixtures. They’d all have to be flush-mounted or even recessed. Except maybe in the dining room: a chandelier-type light fixture is really de rigueur above a dining room table.

The temperature was freezing; it was even colder inside than outside, and although spring had officially come to down east Maine, it was really only warmer compared to the frigid dead of winter. If I couldn’t quite see my breath in front of me, I felt like I ought to.

Derek rubbed his hands together. I’m not sure if it was the cold or the anticipation. Probably the latter. When he turned to me, he didn’t look daunted in the least. “Guess we’d better get started.”

“I guess.”

“Can you help me carry the extension ladder from the boat? That way, I can get the tarp off and start patching the hole in the roof.”

“Sure.”

He looked at me for a second before he reached out—with both arms this time—and pulled me close. With the stupid orange life vest gone, I could snuggle in and put my cheek against the scratchy wool of the sweater. His body was comfortably warm through the layers, and his heart beat steadily against my ear.

“It’ll be OK, Avery.” He said it into my hair. “Come June, you won’t recognize this place, I promise. And you’ll feel better once we start working. You felt the same way about rebuilding Kate’s carriage house, remember? You didn’t think we could do it. But we did, and it was great. You did an awesome job. And you’ll do an even better job this time. This house is going to be a showplace by summer. I promise.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He tilted my face up and kissed me. “Now shake a leg. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said and followed him outside and down the stairs and across the meadow to the dock again. In the corner of my eye, a small blue gray shadow darted through the brush and under the porch.

Derek was right: I did feel better once I started working. Even if all I did for the first two days was hold the ladder while he climbed onto the roof, and then stand below to make encouraging remarks and watch him like a hawk so he didn’t fall off and plummet to his death.

He spent the first day rebuilding and tuck-pointing the substantial chimney: making sure the mortar holding the bricks together was strong and not crumbling. Once the new mortar was set and the chimney was safe, he tied a rope around his waist and looped the other end around the chimney; that way, if he fell—through the roof or over the side of it—he wouldn’t fall too far. And then he proceeded to walk around up there holding on to the rope with one hand. Just wandering back and forth, peeling off old layers of roof shingle and decking and assessing the damage, whistling as he worked. All while I stood below with my heart in my throat, stomping my feet and twitching with worry. From time to time he’d even turn to give me a cheerful wave or thumbs-up, as if to make sure that
I
was all right.

By the time he finally came down, two and a half days later, I was wrung dry emotionally. To the point where, as soon as he had put the second foot on the ground, I said, “I need a break.”

Derek looked surprised. “OK. Um . . . from what, exactly?”

“The worry. I’ve been worrying for two days straight.”

“Except when we were doing other things,” Derek said, a reminiscent twinkle in his eyes.

I blushed. “All right. Yes, except when we were doing other things. But I’ve been standing here for the past two days, worrying that you’ll fall off the roof, and I need to do something else for a while.”

“You can start working on the inside,” Derek suggested, since I had refused to do that while he was outside.

“Other than that.”

He sighed. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

“I want to take a walk,” I said firmly.

“A walk?”

“Across the island, to the other Colonial. I want to see it. Up close.”

“Oh.” His face cleared. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“You don’t want to come?”

He smiled. “I’d love to come. But the sooner I get the holes patched and the windowpanes replaced, the sooner we can hook up the generator and get some heat and power going. It’s been a while since I had to work only with manual tools, and I can’t wait to get my electric drill plugged in somewhere.”

“Oh.” I nodded. Totally understandable. I’m not good at roughing it, either. A hotel without room service is about as far as I’ll go. “OK, then. I’ll just take a quick walk across the island—it shouldn’t take much more than ten minutes to get there, do you think?—and have a look around, and then I’ll come back. Thirty minutes, tops. Just to see what they’ve done to the place, you know?”

“Be careful,” Derek said. “Knock on the door before you start peering through the windows. Just in case someone’s there. You don’t want to catch Gert hanging around in his boxer shorts drinking beer and watching NASCAR.”

I shuddered. “Definitely not.” Derek watching TV in his boxer shorts was one thing, gorgeous specimen that he is. Gert Heyerdahl, with his beard and long hippie hair, was another, and not one I wanted to experience firsthand. “I’ll be careful.”

“If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll come looking for you.” He turned and headed up the stairs to the front door. I went the opposite way, around the corner of the house and along a narrow, partially overgrown path that led away from the ocean and into the woods.

The state tree of Maine is the eastern white spruce, tall and straight, with rough bark and blue green needles. There are also a lot of other trees indigenous to the area: various birches and elms, poplars and oaks, maples and hickory. They like the cold climate, and grow tall and dense. Only the spruces and pines were green, of course; the rest looked like they might be thinking about throwing out buds but hadn’t quite made the commitment yet, just in case we got another cold snap. The lack of growth made it easier to see where I was going as I shuffled along the narrow ribbon of beaten earth that led into the woods, surrounded by more trees than I’d ever seen in one place before in my life.

After a few minutes’ walk, the path split: one branch going left, the other continuing more or less straight. Both new paths were even less defined than the one I’d used to get this far. I stopped at the fork, squinting through the pine needles and bare branches at the sun and trying to picture the layout of the island in my head. It started out wide and flat on the southern end, where Derek’s and my house was. The other Colonial house was positioned on the western side. The little village, meanwhile, was situated at the back of a little cove on the northwestern shore, up where the terrain was higher. On the other side of the woods, and past more meadows. It would seem, then, that the path going straight led north to the village, and the one on the left went due west to Heyerdahl’s house.

I struck out to the left, jumping over the muddy ruts left by the recently melted snow and skipping over gnarly tree roots and patches of dormant vegetation that bisected the skinny path, ruminating on my situation as I went.

A year ago, the idea that I’d own not just one, but two houses in Maine, in addition to a car and two cats, would have been laughable. The picture of me, wandering through the woods in worn-out jeans tucked into a pair of Wellies, would have made my eyes pop. My Wellies were pink with red lipstick kisses on them, admittedly, nothing traditional, but still. Amazing, the difference a year can make.

When I had first arrived in Waterfield, it had been early summer, and I’d planned to spend a weekend finding out what my aunt Inga wanted, and why she had summoned me, a relative she hadn’t seen for twenty-six years, to spill the beans about family secrets and truths and lies. Only to discover, when I got here, that Aunt Inga was dead and I was her heir. But I still had no thoughts of staying. Renovating the house before putting it on the market was just to maximize return on the sale. I’d thought I’d stay a few months and then go back to my regular life in Manhattan. I had a boyfriend, a job I loved, good friends I enjoyed spending time with, and the hustle and bustle of the city around me felt essential.

Yet here I was, ten months later—house, car, cats, and all—pretty much as happy as a clam. Sure, I still missed certain things. Like Balthazar coffee in the morning. Decent Thai food. And going to the grocery store at three A.M. The coffee wasn’t too bad up here, even if it wasn’t Balthazar, and the seafood was great. I can live without Thai. And Derek was a hell of a lot better than any other boyfriend I’d ever had. In fact, Derek made it all worthwhile.

Before Derek, I’d been—shall we say—unlucky in love. Or so determined to find Mr. Right that I saw him in every man I met. To my detriment. Over the years, I got involved with a string of guys I should have stayed away from, and that maybe I would have stayed away from, had I not been so eager to find my soul mate.

But this time, I’d found something real. Derek, who’s sweet, and caring, and funny, and smart, not to mention good with his hands and good-looking, as well. At least if you’re a sucker for tall, lean guys with dreamy blue eyes, the way I am.

While I’d been thinking about—all right, gloating over—my uncommon luck, I’d made my way through the woods covering the middle of Rowanberry Island, and now I could see the ocean blinking in the distance, between the trees. Another minute or two and I was out of the woods—literally—and standing in front of, or behind, the other Colonial.

From the back, it looked exactly like ours, except for the fact that this one was freshly painted, with no wood rot, and no blue tarp covering the roof.

It was a gleaming white, the windows shuttered for the winter, but I was willing to bet none of them were broken.

Sighing enviously, I picked my way around the side of the house. From this view, also, it looked exactly the same as ours, except for the condition. Four windows on each floor, plus an attic. No holes under the eaves for squirrels and birds to get into and build nests. (We’d be dealing with that little problem soon, hopefully in time to keep out the migratory sparrows and warblers that were, even now, I figured, on their way up from South America.)

The place looked deserted, although there was a boat tied up at the dock, a dock which, incidentally, was far superior to ours. Not only did it not droop into the water, but it had room for at least five boats in addition to the one that was there now. The extra berths were in case Gert Heyerdahl decided to throw a party for his friends, I imagined. There are a lot of writers who live in Maine. Maybe they got together for Algonquin-like roundtable discussions when Gert was in residence. Or debauchery and drink, at least.

I doubted Gert was in residence right now. Aside from the shuttered house, the boat didn’t look like something a bestselling author would own. It was utilitarian, wooden rather than fiberglass. Not a fishing boat—I’d seen plenty of those in the harbor in Waterfield—but nothing like a yacht, either. There wasn’t anything sleek or expensive about it; it was old, with a little deck house with curtained windows, and some coils of rope and things stowed on the deck. It reminded me of houseboats I’d seen in pictures, traveling the canals in England. Smaller, though. Too small to live on, but possibly big enough to spend a night or two in the cabin, if there was no other alternative. The name of it was
Calliope
, or so it said on the prow in red letters.