On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (21 page)

Daggett nodded hello to Feeney’s assistant, the pleasant young man named Dobbs, and settled into the chair next to Feeney’s desk. His body felt heavy. He glanced over the list Feeney handed him of Tuesday’s passengers and crew. No surprises there. Feeney kept a neat desk. Daggett tucked the list into his pocket and retrieved his notebook. He opened it against his knee and directed Feeney’s attention to this morning.

The steamer had left at seven, with stops at Campobello, Eastport, and Cumming’s Grove. It arrived in St. Andrews at eleven and would turn around again to make all the same stops, leaving St. Andrews at one-thirty that afternoon and arriving in North Head sometime around seven, depending on the tides. Rob Feeney had no way of knowing who would be on it. Passengers often bought their tickets on board.

Between Tuesday afternoon, when John Thomas Bush had died, and Friday evening, most of those who had come and gone were islanders, Rob Feeney was sure of that. On Wednesday, a party of three arrived, headed for The Anchorage. Young women, all regulars from New York. Feeney remembered them from the previous year. They laughed a lot and told funny stories. On Thursday, three older women for Rose Cottage and on Friday, a family of four for The Marathon. The women came from Massachusetts. The family were Canadians, Rob believed, from Montreal. Business was unusually slow this year.

As for those leaving the island, two sets of two from Rose Cottage left on Wednesday, along with a threesome from The Marathon and a couple from Swallowtail. Wednesday’s passengers had disembarked, as usual, at the various ports between Grand Manan and St. Stephen. Thursdays, the steamer was unavailable for outward bound travel, the constable knew that. On Friday, only a single non-islander was outward bound, a man from The Swallowtail Inn. Boarding with him was Burt Isaacs.

Wednesday’s twosome from The Swallowtail were the Reimers, the Friday solitaire was Jackson Knoll. The Reimers were older, white haired, probably retired. Knoll was thirtyish and muscular with dark curly hair. He stood well over six feet tall and wore a dark green windbreaker with light pants and a tie. He seemed extremely athletic and fit. Rob Feeney was certain Isaacs was traveling with him.

Daggett remembered Knoll from his handwriting on The Swallowtail register. The pen had spread to accommodate him. Jackson Knoll from Toronto. When questioned, Knoll had said he did not know Mr. Brown or anyone else on the island. Daggett had thought it unnecessary to question him further. An oversight, perhaps serious. Daggett would wire Toronto.

According to Feeney, Isaacs had said little to Knoll and nothing at all to Rob Feeney. But Isaacs and Knoll were definitely traveling together, the agent declared. And they knew each other, he was sure of that. They shared a certain level of comfort in each other’s proximity.

“You can always tell when people know each other,” Rob Feeney explained, “you just know. You don’t always know how you know, but you do. Friends, relatives, lovers, married couples. Maybe you don’t know what they are to each other, but you can feel the connection. There’s a certain ease between them. It’s like overhearing a conversation without words. You know?”

Daggett said he did.

There may have been a flicker of familiarity between Isaacs and that fellow Bush, too. Rob Feeney paused to remember but he couldn’t be certain.

Daggett cleared his throat and turned a page in his notebook.

This morning, at any rate, had been a different matter, according to Feeney. No one seemed to know anyone else. Crossing with Matthew Johnson were the Ridleys, a middle-aged couple from Rose Cottage, and Richard Miller, a young man from The Marathon. Feeney exchanged pleasantries with each of the men before they boarded, but none of them had talked to anyone else. The Rose Cottage couple kept entirely to themselves.

Feeney had no idea why Johnson was traveling alone or where he was going. Daggett thought again about Johnson’s claim that he used separations to maintain his marriage.

“I
T
is a scandal,” James Enderby’s hand found its way to his vest, “an absolute scandal.” Enderby hooked his right thumb in his watch pocket. His other hand grasped a bag of fresh sugar donuts, “The notion of Sabra Jane Briggs as some sort of scarlet woman is preposterous.”

“Surely people will see how silly this is,” Jesse Martin agreed.

Edith spread the large pink sheet of paper on the counter next to the bakery’s cash register and read it through carefully. “Ludicrous,” she agreed when she finished reading. “And they call her a murderer,” her voice raised in rare emphasis, “such nonsense.”

“Some folks are talking about asking the constable to interfere,” Emma Parker brought a tray of lemon cupcakes from the back room to the display case.

“Well, censorship is never …”

“Confiscate all those papers, I say,” Emma’s gray curls bounced in Edith’s direction.

“If you ask me,” Jesse Martin interrupted, her blue eyes flashing, “Constable Daggett should arrest the pair of them. Recipes are one thing, jokes or no. But this,” Jesse stabbed her finger at the article entitled V
IXEN
S
KIRTS
C
ONSTABLE
, “this has got to break some kind of law.” The byline announced the author as J. Winslow, Sr.

“Perhaps Miss Briggs or Constable Daggett will consider bringing suit,” James Enderby raised his hand from his watch fob and cleared his throat.

“Wouldn’t bother me to see the constable throw Mr. J. Winslow, Sr. into jail,” Emma Parker unloaded her tray three donuts at a time. “Teach him a lesson.”

“Make life easier for his wife too,” Jesse Martin giggled.

“A
LL
of North Head is incensed,” Edith reported to the women of Whale Cove, who were gathering in the dining room for their noon meal.

“It’s too bad. It’s just too bad,” Jacobus shook her head and set the coffee pot down long enough to order Matt out of the dining room.

Matt’s tail drooped but she began her lone journey through the sitting room and out the front door.

“It’s not libel they should be arrested for so much as bad writing,” Ethelwyn Manning raised her eyes from the pink sheet in her hands.

Jacobus chuckled.

“And even worse jokes,” Katherine Schwartz nudged Manning, who turned the sheet over. They continued to read.

“I had not planned to go with you to The Anchorage this evening,” Eloise Derby took a moment to smooth the material of her blue skirt before drawing her legs under the table and draping a napkin across her lap, “but I believe now I shall. Miss Briggs needs our support.”

“Voorhees the Viking and Brunnhilde Briggs,” Peter Coney called from the kitchen door as though advertising a burlesque show. A serving girl with a large tray squeezed past her.

“It’s going to be a delightful evening,” Winifred Bromhall breezed into the dining room.

“Valkyries to the rescue,” Margaret Byington called from across the room.

Willa flourished a fist.

Everyone laughed.

Edith joined in. She loved to hear them laugh.

“I can hardly wait until evening,” Margaret’s voice carried more energy than usual. “You’ll join us, won’t you?” She pulled out her chair between Willa and Edith.

“I’m afraid not, and I’m actually sorry we won’t be going with you this time,” Willa looked rueful.

“Sabra Jane will be in rare form, you know.”

“Brunnhilde Briggs, indeed,” Winifred Bromhall sat down opposite Margaret. She put a hand on Willa’s arm, “You and Edith really should come with us.”

“I’m sure there’ll be room,” Margaret was hearty. “Claude Gilmore is driving.”

Edith looked at Willa, who smiled back, her expression shifting from sad to mirthfull. “I’m afraid not. But this way,” she turned to Margaret, “we’ll have your breakfast stories to look forward to.

“Stories are better when the audience doesn’t know the plot, you know,” Willa reached into the basket of fresh biscuits the serving girl placed before her.

“Yes,” Edith laughed, “but we’ll let you in on something not exactly in their script at the moment. Watch for the horns on their helmets. They’re in grave danger of sudden removal.”

“Those sort of Valkyrie cattle horn affairs?” Margaret raised her hands and drew them away as though she were shaping a pair of horns on her head.

“That’s right,” Willa approved of the demonstration, “they’re made of papier mache.”

“Yesterday while we were working on the wall,” Edith explained, “Sabra Jane described their costumes to us.”

“And confided that they had a desperate problem. They ran out of glue and could find none on the island,” Willa finished Edith’s thought.

“Perhaps we have some glue,” Mary Jordan interrupted from the next table. Her eyes reflected concern.

“I’m sure we must have some here somewhere,” Jacobus finished filling Mary’s cup and moved over to their table, “I’ll have a look.”

“Are you quite certain you won’t join us tonight?” Alice Jordan leaned across to address Edith.

“I’m afraid running around in the night has taken its toll on us,” Willa pointed to Edith’s bandages.

“This whole incident,” Edith confided, “has been, well, frankly unsettling.”

“You both must be exhilarated and exhausted at the same time,” Jacobus switched pots to pour Sanka in Willa’s cup.

“Exactly,” Willa took a sip.

“The truth is,” Edith added, “Willa is falling behind in her writing, and we simply cannot let that happen. She’s had too many interruptions already with her poor, painful thumb and trips to California to be with her mother. So tonight we turn in early.”

“Hmmm,” Margaret nodded with understanding, “and disruptive business this, death and detection.”

“Too disruptive,” Willa agreed, “makes morning schedules unworkable.”

“Morning schedules are always unworkable,” Margaret growled.

“No, no,” Winifred concurred with Willa, “it’s late nights that make mornings impossible. Whenever I’m working on a publisher’s deadline, I cannot allow myself even an evening for the theater. It’s not the time away or the sleepy morning after,” she helped herself to a biscuit, “it’s the distraction. I cannot get my mind back into an illustration no matter how interesting the work.”

“Precisely,” Willa nodded.

“We do understand, but should you change your mind anyway,” Alice Jordan left her thought unfinished.

“Thank you,” Edith ladled herself a portion of savory mutton stew.

“But you forget,” Willa passed the butter, “I also have a reputation to maintain as an irascible recluse.” Her eyes crinkled again.

“Let’s hear it for the irascibles,” Margaret’s laughter rolled out.

“That’s American slang for the Valkyries, isn’t it?” Winifred liked to be sly.

W
E
generally put the singles in the rear wing. That is what Harvey Andrews had said, nodding toward the hallway that led eventually to Swallowtail’s back stairs. Daggett rested his hand midway down the page of his notebook and with his other hand loosened the buttons on his jacket. They’re usually not as particular as married folks, that was Harvey’s explanation.

But John Thomas Bush had been particular, according to Harvey. He had arranged to have himself placed exactly in the middle of the front section, in a bedroom next to the suite of rooms occupied by the Johnsons and diagonally across from the Jamesons.

Why had he done that, Daggett contemplated the clock on his office wall. Its minute hand clicked forward.

The Reimers had occupied the end room, just beyond the Johnsons and across from the Blackalls of New York. After the Reimers left, their room remained empty. The Jamesons were opposite the Johnsons, on the back side of the building. No view of the sea there, Daggett narrowed his eyes, though the garden was pleasant enough, he supposed.

The Ainsworths, Harts, and McKinneys were in the other end of the front section. The Ainsworths’ two children and their nanny, a Miss Jacobs, had rooms in the rear. So did Jackson Knoll, a big, swaggery fellow Harvey had called him, whose room was opposite Miss Anna Driscoll’s. The back stairs were wooden, circular, and narrow. They opened into the kitchen below.

There was usually someone in the kitchen during the day, Geneva had pointed out, and often well into the evening. Except for about two hours Thursday afternoon, someone was usually at the front desk as well, Harvey insisted. The desk was next to the staircase and if Harvey were not there, he was usually in the sitting room or parlor, somewhere close to the stairs. Thursday Geneva kept an eye on the desk while Harvey went to get supplies and have his hair cut. No one should have been able to slip up to rifle through Mr. Bush’s room without their knowledge.

But someone did rifle through Mr. Bush’s room, Daggett’s hand paused again near the bottom of the page. Mr. Bush’s empty room.

Daggett had made no effort to curtail anyone’s movements. Perhaps he should have.

According to Harvey, Jackson Knoll’s leave-taking had been unexpected. Knoll’s original booking was to have extended another week, through the following Friday. Knoll told Andrews he was leaving because there was nothing to do on Grand Manan.

So where had Jackson Knoll gone? Did he really know Burt Isaacs? What about the possibility that Isaacs knew Bush? And where was Matthew Johnson? Too many questions, too many unanswered questions.

The Jamesons and Johnsons were booked through the following Saturday. As originally Mr. Bush had been, Daggett’s hand paused again.

Did Mr. Bush know the Johnsons? The Jamesons? Anyone on Grand Manan? Daggett reached for his pipe, glad for a quiet moment. The hands on the clock continued to tick forward.

Once Little John got hold of these complications—a rummaged room and disappearing guests—Sabra Jane Briggs might be loosed from the pillory, but Daggett’s competence would certainly be challenged. Daggett questioned it himself.