The Clam Bake Murder: A Windward Bay Mystery (6 page)

And the final two entries, made in the days preceding the clam bake, pretty much confirmed the complicity of her mystery lover, L, in the Elysium plot.

July 21—Overheard G telling L “the ammo is in the mail.” Elysium is getting serious! I pray it’s over soon. It’s turning G & L into monsters. I’m trapped between two monsters and their monstrous plan. Maybe I should warn someone. But who?

July 22—Excited about seeing Cousin Sylvia! What will she make of my new look? L says he won’t show his face at the clam bake. Hopefully G says the same. Just one day to myself (with sweet Sylvia)—is that too much to ask?

I cried myself to sleep after reading that, but had to drink a tot of rum to help the sleep arrive. Manuka curled up on the bed next to my pillow. He hadn’t done that in a while, not since the summer temperature had made prowling around outside preferable; I think he must have known I was in distress, and snuggled next to me out of pity.

But poor Alice! Her position must have been impossible. First her husband, then her lover, consumed by some ambitious scheme to obtain the seal of approval for their land development project. She knew snippets of what was going on, but she was too frightened to tell anyone. So what really happened that night? What hand did L play in the events leading to the murder? And what was the “ammo in the mail”?

The following morning I rang Melissa Briggs, got no reply. Then I tried Del Brady. Again, no reply. So I went round to the Briggs’s, saw the curtain in the front window move. Definitely someone in. But no one answered the door. Why were they avoiding me?

Del’s car was in the driveway, and I saw the TV on through his window. But the same thing happened: he just switched it off and sneaked out of sight, wouldn’t come near the door. What was I, a leper or something? Two of the most influential people in Windward, giving me the Ferris Bueller routine?

Maybe it was something I’d baked.

Exasperated, I drove down to the beach to try and clear my head. The sky was a little overcast, which suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood for a blazing hot day. A young couple strolled by toting raspberry smoothies. I immediately went and bought one, slurped it down a little too fast and got heavy duty brain freeze. Then I followed it up with a packet of smoky bacon flavoured potato chips and a sausage roll. When even they didn’t fill me up, I splashed out on a foot-long Subway Melt with extra toasted cheese and Southwest sauce.

Now that I’d consumed my calories for the year, I had to walk them off. What started as a leisurely saunter along the beach quickly turned into a mammoth hike—or steely march—right up the coast to the Forestall lighthouse and back again.

By the time I reached my car, I’d beaten the mystery into some sort of shape, or at least one fit to share with Billy Langdale. It might even be time to take it to Chief Mattson. If the mysterious L was still at large, coercing Town Selectmen—using his and Gordo’s “ammo” to ensure a favourable outcome in the Elysium vote—now was probably the time to step in and expose him. Alice’s diary, together with Gordo’s past history of shady real estate practises, ought to be proof enough to intrigue a police investigation.

When I got home, there was a folded note clamped in the letterbox. Manuka had already started clawing it from the vestibule, as he did to anything not properly posted through, but I got to it before the little rascal managed to shred it. To my genuine surprise, this is what it said:

Sylvia,

I know you took something from Alice’s room last night, and that you’re onto Elysium. Whatever you do,
don’t
go to the police. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve found out, for your own sake. What happened to Alice might happen to you. You’re in more danger than you realise, and I can’t protect you, just like I couldn’t protect Alice. She wouldn’t have wanted you mixed up in this, so please...leave well alone. Go live your life.

After reading the note six times, I stared at it in disbelief, took a deep breath, then read it again, scrutinizing every word and every inference. Gordo was at large, here in Windward, and he’d been
to my house.
An image of Harrison Ford as The Fugitive, skulking in the shadows, working to solve the puzzle of his wife’s murder, wouldn’t leave me alone. Thank God there wasn’t a one-armed man involved. Or was there? I knew nothing about Alice’s mystery man, L, other than he lived in Windward, he was heavily involved in the Elysium plot, and he had to be at least moderately attractive for a girl like Alice to hook up with him.

I needed to talk to Billy, but Gordo had warned me not to say anything to the police. Was he watching my every move? What would he do if he found out what Billy
already
knew. And if I tried to avoid Billy like Del Brady and Melissa Briggs were avoiding me, he’d smell a rat. He’d come to check up on me. What would Gordo do then? Take action against the both of us?

So this was the pickle: if I went to Billy with what I knew, our lives might be in danger; and if I didn’t go to Billy, our lives would be in danger because he would eventually come to
me.
I sat on the sofa, hugging my knees while I pondered what to do next. A way out of this that didn’t end with me floating face-down in the bay.

If only there was some way I could find out where Gordo was hiding. Some way I could flush him out, or better still,
lure
him out. What was the thing he wanted more than anything right now? His freedom? To be exonerated of the crime he claimed he didn’t commit? Or was he hanging around Windward for another reason? Something to do with Elysium, or his mysterious business partner, L?

I certainly wasn’t going to wait around and do nothing. So I decided the best option would be to play him at his own game. He was keeping an eye on me? He’d seen me go into Alice’s bedroom? That meant he had to have been in the vicinity last night. No way he could have predicted I’d go there, to the house, and assuming he didn’t have a vehicle in which to follow me—unlikely, given that the whole state was looking for him—the logical conclusion was that he’d been staying near the house, perhaps in the woods across the road. He’d seen my light inside and had come down for a closer look, to see who it was snooping around in his wife’s bedroom.

It made a droll kind of sense, to hide out within a stone’s throw of the scene of the crime, in an area the police had to have combed until they were sick of it. By day, he’d probably have another den. But hiding places in Windward were limited. It was a small town, and quite busy in summer. Gordo would not be able to move around freely all day. He’d be confined to maybe a handful of places he could go to lie low. I figured he would return to his hidey-hole near his wife’s family home at some point, most likely at night.

I would wait out there too, all through the night, and the next night and the next if I had to, listening, watching like he had. And I would be armed. If Gordo showed up, I’d get him to talk. I’d find out exactly what had happened to Alice, what Elysium was all about, and the identity of the mysterious L.

In short, it was time to catch me a fugitive.

Chapter Five

At ten-thirty that night, I walked over to Coppinger Drive. Dressed in all-dark clothes, including a warm, black hoodie and a pair of old gray jeans I used to go hiking in, and my hiking boots, I sneaked off the sidewalk when there was no traffic and vaulted over the stone wall about three hundred yards from Alice’s house. There I crouched, behind the wall, for several minutes, making sure I wasn’t being followed by someone on foot, either through the forest or from the road.

The only sounds were the rumble of the surf, a steady rhythm of cricket noises, and the distant beat of beach party music. Satisfied, I scrambled up the earthen verge and darted into the forest. The ground was bone dry, and there were roots everywhere, making it tricky to keep my footing at any kind of speed. So I crept instead, stayed low. The juice in my bicycle water bottle sloshed around inside my rucksack, but it wasn’t loud enough to give me away. What I needed now was a hiding place—somewhere opposite the house.

I soon stumbled across a dip in the ground. If I’d been looking for it I wouldn’t have seen it unless I’d approached from the opposite end, because it was obscured by a thicket running lengthwise down one side and a dead tree that had fallen right in front of it. The ground gave way without warning. And it was quite a way off the beaten path. Walkers had no reason to come this way; there was nothing else here.

Unpacking my binoculars, and the flick-knife I’d kept ever since senior high—Alice and I had both got hold of one after a girl from our class had been assaulted on her way home—I found a decent vantage spot and, resting on a couple of folded blankets, started my vigil.

The odd car passed by. A few trucks. One glow-bright cyclist whose panting and wheezing did not sound healthy at all. At around midnight, I polished off a tuna and sweet corn sandwich and a banana, swilled them down with a few grateful gulps of juice. Asked myself what the hell I was doing out here, and what Manuka would make of his mistress going A.W.O.L.

A few hours later, before dawn broke, I massaged my sore back and knees, ate the last sandwich and decided field work was not my thing. But I would come back the next night anyway. I was convinced the theory was sound, that Gordo would return here at some point. Unless the note he’d left was a farewell gesture. But I didn’t think so. No, he was watching certain parties in Windward, keeping tabs, but whom exactly and the reasons why I could not figure out unless I caught up with him.

I went home at daybreak, physically shattered and morally down-in-the-dumps. Manuka greeted me on the front fence. When I bent to stroke him, he jumped onto my bowed back and purred his head off, so I walked into the house like that—an insomniac hunchback—the little guy balancing on me with impressive devotion...and tenacity (those claws!!).

I slept till just after noon, then drove to the bakery to have a word with Gabe. I really needed the rest of the week off, so, rather than sponge on his good nature, I reminded him I had some annual leave saved up and could use that instead.

“That’s fine, Sylvia. You go ahead and take that extra week. But try to pop in some time before it’s up, will you? I’d like to introduce you to the new manager.”

“What do you mean? You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Yep. Week after next. It’s all arranged—I’m heading for the Hub.”

“Portland? You got promoted?”

“I sure did.” He beamed so brightly he was almost aglow. We got a blast of heat from one of the ovens as Pete opened it up to check the bread. Gabe wiped his brow with his cuff, then rolled up his sleeves. There was a nasty cut on his right forearm. Two nasty cuts. As if something had sliced him. But they’d started to scab over.

“Good for you, man.” I shook his hand. “It’s been a long time coming. What finally clinched it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe they just had a spot open...at long last.” His false modesty didn’t ring true. Gabe was the monarch of his bakery—he normally preened like a peacock whenever he received acclaim. I started to suspect he had bad news for the rest of us, that maybe our jobs were in jeopardy.

“What about this new manager?” I asked. “Will he be keeping everything the same?”

“I expect so. From what I hear, he likes to run a tight ship. A real stickler for hygiene.”

“Nothing new there, then.”

He smiled. “You’ll be fine, all of you. And if you don’t think he’s ready, you have my permission to put him in his place...” He pointed to the roaring oven. “Make sure he gets an even tan.”

I had to laugh at that. “A Solinski special. So did you hear anything more about...you know...” I lowered my voice to a whisper, not wanting Pete to overhear “...about the recipe? My Cut Rounds.”

“I’ve mentioned it to the people at the Hub,” he said. “But the option was signed confidentially, so they’re not allowed to give out a name. Whoever took credit for your recipe covered his tracks well.”

“And there’s nothing I can do?”

“Without evidence to prove intellectual property, it would just be your word against his, whoever it is. He could claim you were trying to take credit for
his
recipe, that you stole it off him somehow.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“My advice, Sylvia, is to let it go and move on. If you lodged any kind of complaint, if you kicked up a fuss without compelling evidence, you never know how it could work against you in future, for your career at Ainscough’s, which I have no doubt will be a long and successful one.”

“
If
I keep quiet.”

“It pains me to say it, but yes. As your friend and mentor, I would advise caution. Dazzle them some other way. I know you’re capable of it. You’ve
proved
you’re capable of it. All you need now is the stroke of luck to go with it. So keep on rolling—so to speak.”

We both winced at that stale old pun. Then I wished him good luck and said I had a few errands to run. He returned to his duties, whistling away. And my heart sank a little. Gabe was leaving Windward, probably for good.

Another friend gone.

###

The weather grew blustery throughout the evening, but by sunset it had calmed down. The temperature, though, never recovered. Dark clouds piled overhead, blotting out the moon and the stars. The rain didn’t reach Windward, but I took my warmest ski jacket and full waterproofs for the forest stakeout. I arrived at the hollow around 22.50, not in the best of moods. Downright dejected, in fact. Life seemed to be taking everything from me and giving nothing back in return. And I don’t think I’d ever wanted to be with Billy Langdale as much as I did at that moment, surrounded by such spooky desolation.

It didn’t take long for me to work up an appetite. The combination of fretting and concentrating often did that. So I unscrewed the top off my Thermos flask and poured a cup of Oxtail soup. It was way too hot. No sooner did I puff my cheeks to blow on it than I heard footsteps. From the forest interior. And someone was whispering. Rapid, angry whispers.