Murder on the Cliff (28 page)

No one was home at Briarcote. Charlotte was glad of it. She wanted a minute to put her feet up and relax. After helping herself to a glass of lemonade, she did exactly that. Put her feet up on the old coffee table in the library. She hadn’t even looked at a newspaper in a week, she thought as she noticed the Sunday newspapers neatly stacked on one side of the table. Newspaper! Maybe Billy had communicated with the murderer through the newspaper. It was certainly worth checking. She started with Saturday. If he had put an ad in on Friday, it probably wouldn’t have run until Sunday, but she would check Saturday anyway. She scanned the column headings in the classified section of the
Newport Daily News:
“Situations Wanted,” “Child Care,” “Notices & Personals”—that’s where it would be. She read down the “Notices & Personals” column: “Is your drinking a problem? If you want help call Alcoholics Anonymous.” “Pregnant, upset? Call for counseling.” “Single? Try video dating.” Nothing. The
Newport Daily News
wasn’t published on Sunday, so she checked the “Personal Notices” column in the classified section of the
Providence Sunday Journal
next. It was the same story: AA, pregnancy, singles, bill problems, reward for information leading to, answers to your Bible questions. And, at the very end, a five-line notice: “Re: events of the night of July 27–28. 1. Sunday, midnight: the observation deck at Sachuest Point; 2. Tuesday, midnight: The Bells; 3. Thursday, midnight: the bridge at Purgatory.”

The night of July 27–28 was the night Okichi-
mago
had been killed. The rest sounded like drop-off points. It certainly looked like blackmail.

She got up and walked over to the phone on Spalding’s desk. She looked up the number for the city solicitor’s office and dialed. A secretary answered. Charlotte asked for Lew and then waited anxiously for him to pick up.

In a minute, he was on the line.

“Lew, I think I’ve got something,” she said, her voice quavering with excitement. “Do you know a place called Purgatory?”

He replied that he did; it was a chasm in the rocks that formed a steep cliff at the west end of Second Beach.

“Is there a bridge there?” she asked.

“Yes. An observation bridge that spans the head of the chasm.”

“What about a place called The Bells?”

“It’s an abandoned carriage house at Brenton Point.”

“One more. What about Sachuest Point?”

“A wildlife sanctuary in Middletown, near Second Beach.”

“Is there an observation deck there?”

“Yes, for the bird watchers. Now it’s my turn to ask questions,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

“I think those are the places for the money drops. Have you got the classified section of the
Providence Sunday Journal
there?”

“I think so. I’ll look.” He returned in a minute. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

“It’s on the first page,” Charlotte said. “Number 109. ‘Personal Notices.’ At the bottom of the column.” She waited while he looked.

“I see what you mean,” he said finally. “They’re all isolated spots.”

“I just came from the boat broker. Billy put a ten percent deposit on
Bastet
this morning. The asking price is seven hundred and fifty thousand. He’s going to pay the rest in cash. If this notice is what I think it is, he’s due to pick up the second installment from Okichi-
mago
’s murderer tonight at The Bells. I think we should plan on crashing the party. What do you think?” She could just imagine the gleeful smile on Lew’s long, narrow face.

“I think that’s a very good idea.”

They were driving along Ocean Drive, the winding eight-mile drive along the wild, rocky southern coast of the island. It was one of Charlotte’s favorite drives in the world: jagged rocks, sheltered sea coves, and sweet, sandy beaches on one side; lily-covered inland ponds, wild roses and honeysuckle, and marshes filled with tall, waving grasses on the other, all swirling in the soft, shimmery gold mist—part fog, part sea air—that was the distinctive feature of the local atmosphere. On the ocean side of the road, there were occasional glimpses of gabled stone mansions on rocky outcroppings, or rolling lawns and colorful flower beds hidden behind neatly clipped privet hedges or elegant stone walls. Out on the sparkling sea, large and small sailboats plied their way in and out of the east passage to Narragansett Bay. Past the cottages and beaches, the area opened up into Brenton Point State Park, a ninety-acre nature preserve at the tip of the island, which had once been a private estate. The park was a favorite destination of day-trippers; families from nearby Providence and Fall River were picnicking on the grass, fishing from the rocks, flying kites, and playing soccer.

Charlotte and Lew were there to check out The Bells, the burned-out shell of a once-elegant old carriage house that took its name from its bell tower. The ruined carriage house was all that was left of the old estate, which had long ago been demolished. Though it was located only a hundred feet or so from the park administration building, they would never have found it had Lew not known where it was. The entire area was overgrown with scrub brush: a dense thicket of wild roses, tangled vines, and stunted trees. They reached it via a narrow, winding path that had been mowed through the undergrowth.

“It must have been beautiful,” said Charlotte as the ruined carriage house came into view. Despite the grass growing on the steeply pitched slate roof and the gaping black holes where the windows had been, one still had a sense of what it once had been like: the lovely old stonework, the tall, stately brick chimneys, the walled entrance courtyard.

“Not since I can remember,” said Lew. “I used to come here as a kid. Make a campfire, drink beer, yell at the moon: all the things that kids do to raise cain.” He smiled. “I haven’t been here in probably twenty-five years. Last time I can remember was a Newport Folk Festival in the sixties. The kids from out of town used to camp out here.” He looked around. “It hasn’t changed much.”

From the courtyard, they entered through one of the carriage bays. Inside, it was a different story: despite the box stalls for the horses, it looked more like an abandoned subway tunnel than a carriage house: the floor was heaped with broken glass and rubble. Beer cans and bottles were piled up in the corners, and graffiti covered the walls. A sign warned trespassers to keep out.

“So,” said Charlotte, her voice echoing in the big, empty space, “where’s our boy going to wait for his mark? That is, if he gets here first. He might decide to wait until the murderer leaves before picking up the money.”

“I would guess upstairs,” Lew replied. He led her over to a staircase in a corner, which led to a second-story loft.

Charlotte followed him up the stairs.

“He could see everything from here,” said Lew as they reached the top. He pointed to one of the dormer windows: “Out to the courtyard”—then he pointed to one of the holes in the floor—“as well as down to the first floor. Plus, he couldn’t be seen here himself. He would want to remain anonymous. He wouldn’t want to take the risk that the murderer would kill him.”

Kill him! Bells went off in Charlotte’s head. “Lew! Remember when we were speculating that Shawn might have been murdered because he saw something he didn’t know he’d seen. What if what he saw was the murderer? The murderer also sees Shawn, but doesn’t think that Shawn has seen him. Then he gets a demand for money from an anonymous blackmailer.”

Lew picked up the thread of her thoughts. “The murderer concludes that Shawn is the blackmailer and kills him—or has him killed—to avoid having to pay the blackmail money as well as to keep Shawn from going to the authorities with what he knows, or what the murderer thinks he knows.”

As she gazed out at the courtyard, Charlotte examined the theory for flaws and chips, turning it over in her mind as if it were a piece of porcelain that she wanted to buy. But it was perfect: no flaws, no chips, no faded spots.

“It’s a good theory,” said Lew. “A very good theory.”

But as Charlotte turned it over in her mind again, she turned up not just a flaw, but a gigantic crack. “Damn, it doesn’t work,” she said.

“Why not?”

“If the murderer thought he’d done away with the blackmailer—namely Shawn—then why did he show up with the first installment of the money at Purgatory last night. Which he must have done, otherwise how would Billy have gotten the money to make the deposit on the boat this morning?”

Lew stroked his mustache, thinking.

“Unless …” Charlotte continued.

“Unless what?”

“Unless Billy also concluded that the murderer had mistaken Shawn for him. If Billy had been sitting on the point, he would have seen Shawn looking for Okichi-
mago
. He might have figured out that he was the intended victim of Shawn’s murder and called the murderer up after Shawn’s death with a friendly little reminder that he had better keep his appointment …”

“In which case, the murderer must have been very surprised. He thinks he’s killed the blackmailer and he finds out that he’s killed the wrong man.”

“In which case, Billy had better watch out. If the murderer killed Shawn because he thought Shawn was blackmailing him, what’s to keep him from killing Billy? We didn’t have any trouble figuring out where Billy got the money for the down payment. With Billy’s big mouth, it shouldn’t be hard for the murderer to figure it out either.”

“Especially if the murderer hangs around any bars. I think we’d better talk to Sullivan—fast,” said Lew.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Charlotte concurred.

After they had finished checking out The Bells, Lew dropped Charlotte off at Briarcote and then went on to the police station to talk with Sullivan. Now all Charlotte had to do was wait. But waiting was hard work. After a few minutes of pacing nervously, she started ransacking her pocketbook for a cigarette. She only smoked occasionally, but when she felt the urge, it was intense. She found not only a packet of cigarettes, but something else as well: the gift package that Just-call-me-Ken had given her at the closing ceremonies. It was exquisitely wrapped, with sharp, crisp edges. She remembered receiving similarly wrapped packages in Japan, where gift-wrapping was a time-honored art. Red and white cords held a fresh piece of white paper in place over the face of the box, on which both her name and Mori’s were written in an elegant hand. Inside were seven or eight photographs of Charlotte at the geisha party: being introduced by Paul, talking with Shawn, pouring sake for Keiko. It was a lovely idea for a present. She stubbed out her cigarette. The photographs had given her an idea. If it didn’t pay off, at least it would help kill time until this evening. She would visit Mori and ask to see his other photographs. He had been taking pictures throughout the geisha party. In thinking about the murders, she kept coming back to the party. Had something happened there that had prompted someone to kill Okichi-
mago
? Maybe the pictures would tell. After calling first, she set out down Bellevue Avenue again. Much as she loved this beautiful street, it became tiresome when you had to travel it several times a day. It had taken her only a day and a half to figure out the shortcuts that allowed her to avoid much of the Bellevue Avenue traffic—an achievement that had astonished Connie. “There are people who’ve lived here all their lives who haven’t figured out how to avoid Bellevue Avenue,” she said. Charlotte’s rejoinder was that that they must not have ever lived in New York.

Mori was staying at the other end of Bellevue at the Viking Hotel, named after the stone tower in the nearby park which was supposedly built by the Vikings. She parked in front of the art museum and walked down to the hotel. Just-call-me-Ken was waiting for her at one of the umbrella-shaded tables in the patio café next to the hotel. His briefcase lay on the table. As she approached, he rose and bowed deeply.

Charlotte greeted him and thanked him again for his gift.

“It is my pleasure,” he said. “It is a custom we have in Japan: to give a small gift as a memento of a special event that you have shared with friends. We call such small gifts
o-miyage
.”

Charlotte repeated the word. “It’s a lovely custom,” she said.

“I have the other photographs here, if you would like to see them,” said Mori, laying a hand on his briefcase. “Photography is my special hobby.”

“I’d like to see them very much,” said Charlotte.

Taking a seat, he opened his briefcase and removed a stack of photographs, which he handed over to Charlotte.

As Mori looked on, Charlotte took a seat and started sifting through the pictures: Tanaka sitting on his knees, singing the
kouta;
Marianne clinging to Shawn’s shoulder; the kitten-faced Keiko beating the drum; Dede flirting with Justin (she was a girl after her mother’s own heart); and Okichi-
mago
of the turquoise-flecked green eyes, a cluster of red camellias behind her ear, a green sake cup in her hand. She was wearing the sea-shell kimono; Charlotte shuddered as she remembered the way the gold and silver threads had shimmered under the water. She continued sifting through the pictures. Then she found it. She had almost passed it by before realizing that this was the picture that told the whole story. Not only why Okichi-
mago
had been murdered, but who had murdered her. Her hand shook as she held it up to look at it more closely.

“You like that picture?” asked Mori with a pleased smile.

“Yes,” she replied. “May I have a copy?”

“Of course. Take that one; I can make another. I sent these out to be printed, but at home, I do all my own printing. I can make copies of all of them for you if you’d like.”

“Thank you very much, but I’d just like this one. This could be a very important picture,” she added. “It might help to explain Okichi-
mago
’s death. Is the negative stored in a safe place?”

Mori removed a thick three-ring binder from his briefcase and showed her how he had catalogued the slides of the Black Ships Festival according to event in plastic see-through sleeves.

Charlotte expressed admiration for his system.

“When I return to Boston, I will store them in a fireproof filing cabinet,” he assured her. He handed her his business card. “If you want more prints, just let me know.”