Clammed Up (10 page)

After Sonny left, I called the town offices and setup an appointment for the building inspector to go out to the island in the afternoon with Sonny and me. Then I sat at Dad’s desk listening to the tick of his father’s mantel clock. Every minute seemed to count down the amount of time we had to save the business. I meant what I’d said to Sonny. I’d sacrificed too much to see it go down. And for such an irrelevant reason. A murder and a fire didn’t mean the business wasn’t viable. It was just bad luck.

Gus’s lecture on Sunday still rang in my ears. He’d told me not to be a victim, not to let my business be pulled under by this mess. But what could I do?

Before the fire, Lieutenant Binder said the murder probably had nothing to do with Morrow Island. What if that was true? What if the fire was a coincidence or even a planned distraction, intended to take the police in the wrong direction?

While the state police investigated the fire at Windsholme and tried to tie it to the murder, I decided to follow up on their original theory—that the body had been left hanging from the staircase to upset Michaela.

But who would want to upset Michaela? And in such a horrible way? Someone who knew her, clearly. Someone who had reason to hate her. Someone very close. They say hate is the flip side of love. There has to be great passion to hate.

Who would feel so passionate about Michaela? Tony was at the top of the list. Lynn, the maid of honor, implied Michaela cared more for Ray than she did for Tony. Could Tony have been jealous of Ray? When we met at the Bellevue to review the wedding costs, there’d been something about Tony I distrusted. Some hidden agenda. But I had no idea what it was. If Ray and Michaela were lovers, that might explain why Ray had gotten so drunk the night before her wedding.

I had to find out more about the wedding party—what they’d done and where they’d been on the night Ray Wilson was murdered.

My eye fell on a box of brochures in the corner of the office. They’d come from the printer just a couple days earlier. I needed to deliver them to the hotels in the area. Hotel guests frequently asked about lobsters, harbor cruises, and authentic Maine experiences, and of course, we offered them all. We wanted the Snowden Family Clambake to be the first thing the desk clerk recommended. In all the craziness, the brochures hadn’t been delivered. I filled a tote bag with them, figuring I could drop them off at the hotels where Michaela and Tony’s wedding party had stayed and ask a few questions at the same time.

The first place I planned to hit was the Lighthouse Inn. It was an important hotel in the harbor and the last place Ray Wilson was seen alive. Chris Durand had told me he watched Ray walk through the doors to the hotel at a little after 1:00 on the morning he died.

As I walked toward the inn, I passed the entrance to the town dock. I glanced at our ticket booth where Livvie was talking to a small crowd. No doubt people who’d been booked for the clambake who were seeking refunds. I sighed and kept moving. I was on a mission.

When I got to the Lighthouse, I hit gold. Clarice Kemp was at the front desk. What luck. That woman was the biggest gossip in town. Rumor had it she didn’t even need to work. She probably would have hung around in the lobby of the Lighthouse with her ears open and her mouth flapping for free. But for decorum’s sake, she answered the phone and took the occasional reservation for pay.

“Julia!” she cried, as thrilled to see me no doubt, as I was to see her. Clarice had her sources and I had to be one of the hottest ones in town at the moment.

Clarice had a thin face and a beak nose. She wore her brown hair (Clairol Nice’n Easy 115, I’d been told) in tight waves that framed her face and jaw. It had been the same style since I was a child—or maybe even since she was.

“Clarice!” I returned her enthusiasm. “I just came to drop off these brochures. We hope you’ll recommend us to your guests.”

Clarice took the pile of brochures I handed her, staring at them dubiously. “But I thought you were closed. The murder? The fire?”

“A couple days at most,” I assured her breezily. “The fire damaged only the side porch of Windsholme. Nothing to do with the clambake business.” While I was there, I intended to get positive information flowing through the town’s channels. Before she could ask anything else, I said, “I hear the Lighthouse has its own connection to the murder. Ray Wilson stayed here the night he was killed.”

Clarice settled her elbows on the front desk for a long natter. “He was supposed to.” She straightened up and looked from side to side to make sure no one was listening. “But, he didn’t. The maid said his luggage was in the room, tux hanging in the closet, but his suitcase was never unpacked, the bed never slept in.”

“Really?”
Interesting news.
“I wonder where he could have gone that night?”

“You wonder. We wonder. The state police definitely wonder. They’ve been here more than once, I can tell you that. The maid, she’s a Russian girl on a student visa, you understand.”

Oh, I did. By high summer about half the workers in the harbor would be foreign “students.”

Clarice continued. “She’s terrified.”

Another collateral victim of Ray Wilson’s killer. “You mentioned Ray’s tux and suitcase. Do you happen to know if he had a big camp trunk in his room?”

“A trunk?” Clarice put on her thinking face. It was new information for her. “Why, no. I was here at the front desk when the state police carried everything out. There wasn’t any kind of trunk. But they did tow his car out of our parking lot. It could have had a trunk in it. Is the trunk important?” Clarice squinted at me, eager for another murder tidbit.

“Did the police ask about it?” I pressed.

“Uh, no. Not that I heard. You’re the first one to mention it.”

“Then I’m sure it’s not important.” I was sure of no such thing. The camp trunk bothered the heck out of me. What could have been in it and where had the trunk gone? “Any theories about where Ray Wilson went that night after he left the hotel?”

“I heard that hunky Chris Durand dropped him at the front door. The night desk guy said this Wilson came in, obviously drunk. While he was in the lobby, trying to remember the way to his room, his cell phone rang. Can you imagine? After 1:00 in the morning?”

I shook my head, indicating that I, indeed, could not imagine such an affront to acceptable behavior among humans as a cell phone call that late at night.

“The night guy said Wilson didn’t even answer the phone, just looked at the display and staggered out the side door. The night guy went after him because everything but the lobby door is locked at night, so he was worried Wilson wouldn’t be able to get back in the way he went out. But Wilson was nowhere to be seen.”

“I wonder what the police think?”

“I don’t know. Who could have called Wilson at that hour? It must have been one of the wedding party, right? They were the only ones in town who knew him.”

“Right,” I confirmed her speculation. “Must have been one of them.” There was no point in telling Clarice that Ray Wilson was from Bath. I was after information about the wedding party and didn’t want to get Clarice off track. I knew as soon as I left, she would be telling people, “Julia Snowden says it’s one of the wedding party who called Ray Wilson that night.”

I, too, thought it must have been. But who?

From the dockside, I carried the lighter tote bag back up the hill toward the Snuggles Inn. The two “maiden ladies” who ran it, Viola and Fiona Snug, were not actually British, though they always seemed so to me. Their parents had moved to Maine from England before the sisters were born, so their father could work as the golf course pro at one of the resorts out on Eastclaw Point. They’d been raised taking tea, wearing jumpers instead of sweaters, and eating pudding instead of dessert. They always had at least one spoiled and happy dog.

Fiona or “Fee” was a plain woman bent over with arthritis, always in a skirt and sensible shoes. She was forever calling out, “Walkies!” and taking the dog, currently a friendly Scottish terrier, for a rigorous tramp up and down the harbor hills. With her bent back, she looked like a question mark bustling along the road.

Viola or “Vee” was something else entirely. In her seventies, she was still glamorous, with a beautiful head of coiffed snow-white hair. Even on days when she didn’t plan to leave the house, she wore full makeup, a tailored dress, nylons, and pumps.

In the dead of winter, she wore boots with lambs wool cuffs around the ankles and high spiked heels. As she grew older, the boots caused no end of arguments with Fee, who feared Vee would fall and break a hip. The whole town feared Vee would fall and break a hip. But she never did.

When their parents died, the sisters took their inheritance and bought the Victorian gingerbread house across the street from my parents and created the Snuggles, one of a dozen bed and breakfasts in the harbor. My dad fixed various things around the inn, mowed the lawn, and shoveled their snow. They, in turn, lay out and cared for the beautiful English gardens at our house. The sisters always felt a special bond with Livvie and me, two sets of sisters, and treated us to tea and scones whenever they got the chance.

“Julia!” Fee cried through the screen door as I made my way down their walk.

“Hello, Fee. I’ve brought you our new brochures.” Though, at their insistence, I’d been calling them by their first names for almost a decade, the names still stuck in my throat. To me the sisters would always be, “The Misses Snug.”

Before I knew it, I was sitting in their old-fashioned kitchen, drinking tea, eating scones, and accepting the commiserations of both ladies about the clambake’s recent troubles. I knew if I were patient, the conversation would inevitably turn to Ray Wilson. I didn’t have to wait long.

“We were shocked, just shocked by the murder of that young man on your island. And the bride and her attendants stayed right here in this house,” Fee said.

“Julia, didn’t you recommend us to Michaela?” Vee asked, eyes narrowing.

I admitted I had. “Did anything seem unusual to you about Michaela and her bridesmaids?”

“Not at first,” Fee answered. “They seemed like ordinary bride and attendants.” Busman’s Harbor was a popular wedding destination, so the ladies had a strong basis for comparison.

“But then?” I asked.

“But then, they came back from the rehearsal dinner and all hell broke loose.” Vee was always the more outspoken.

Fee blushed a little at the swear word, but after more than seventy years together, they’d learned to tolerate each other’s foibles. She picked up the thread. “They went out to Crowley’s after the rehearsal dinner. It was quite late when they got back. Vee and I were in our bedroom, listening to that nice Jimmy Fallon on the television, waiting for the group to come in.”

The ladies had their own bedrooms in the winter, but during the season they stayed together in a little room off the kitchen, so they could rent out all the upstairs rooms to maximize their income. Like most B&Bs in the harbor, they didn’t give guests keys, so the ladies had to wait up to lock the door after whomever was the last one in.

“I got up to lock the door when I heard the most terrific row coming from upstairs.” Fee leaned over the kitchen table and lowered her voice. It wouldn’t do if current guests heard her gossiping about past customers. “It was the bride, Michaela, and the other one, Lynn, the maid of honor.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“The maid of honor yelled, ‘Leave him be. Why do you care about him so much? He’s nothing but trouble.’ Then that Michaela shouted, ‘How can you be so uncaring? Something was really wrong with him tonight.’ Then the other one shouted, ‘The same thing that was wrong with him every night not so long ago. He was drunk off his . . .’ uh,”—Fee searched for the correct word to substitute for the one the maid of honor had undoubtedly used—“posterior.”

“So then what?” I prompted.

“Then Michaela said, ‘I don’t care. I’m going to find him.’ And the other one shouted, ‘Are you crazy? Are you trying to sabotage your marriage before it even starts? Stay away from him.’ Then that nice Michaela came down the stairs, talking on her cell phone. She said to whoever it was, ‘I’m coming over right now.’ And she banged open the front door and marched out into the night.”

“Goodness. What happened next?”

“I went into the parlor to wait for Michaela to come back. I figured at least then Vee could get some sleep.” Vee had to be up extra early because she cooked the Snuggles’ wonderful English breakfasts.

“I sat up reading until a little before two,” Fee continued. “No sign of Michaela, though I overheard the maid of honor leave her several messages, saying how sorry she was and to please come back.”

“What time did Michaela return?”

“I don’t know.” Fee looked sheepish. “I fell sound asleep in my chair. Vee woke me when she got up to make breakfast.”

Vee took up the tale. “When the girls came down in the morning, Michaela was with them. They all seemed to be the best of friends. It was like everything from the night before was forgotten.”

Fee’s eyes widened. “Imagine, me snoring away in my chair with the door unlocked while a murderer was on the loose.”

“Have the police interviewed you?”

“Oh yes, dear. That nice Lieutenant Binder came along with his handsome sergeant. They asked all sorts of questions,” Fee said.

“They only came the once.” Vee sounded slightly disappointed. “We told him everything.”

Binder and Flynn knew from the maid at the Lighthouse Inn Ray hadn’t stayed in his room the night he died. They knew from the Snugg sisters Michaela had gone out. I just hoped the cops were paying attention and weren’t completely distracted by the fire.

I stood on the sidewalk outside the Snuggles with my even lighter tote bag of brochures. It seemed pretty obvious to me who had called Ray Wilson when he’d been in the lobby of the Lighthouse Inn and caused him to turn around and go outside again. Clarice had said that Ray merely glanced at the display on his phone while he was in the lobby. He must have called Michaela back once he got outside and then gone somewhere to meet her. But why would a bride go off on a middle-of-the-night rendezvous the day of her wedding?

I was certain Michaela hadn’t killed Ray. I didn’t believe that a girl from New Jersey who didn’t know Busman’s Harbor could have taken Ray out to Morrow Island in the dark. Nor did I believe she had the strength, at least by herself, to hang his body from the staircase at Windsholme. Most compelling, she’d been next to me when we discovered the body. Unless she was the best actress I’d ever seen, her distress was genuine.

Before the fire, Binder had theorized that the body was left at Windsholme to upset Michaela, so the police didn’t think Michaela killed Ray, either.

If Michaela was responsible for Ray leaving the Lighthouse Inn after the wedding party’s celebration at Crowley’s, who was responsible for him never going back?

I swung my tote over my shoulder and headed across the footbridge to the other side of the harbor.

Tony had spent the night before his wedding-that-wasn’t in the honeymoon suite at the Bellevue Inn. As far as I understood, he and Michaela lived together in New York, but like a lot of couples, they’d observed the traditional separation on the eve of their wedding.

Unfortunately, the desk clerk on duty at the Bellevue was a kid I didn’t know. I introduced myself to him and did my usual spiel about the brochures. He raised an eyebrow when I said, “Snowden Family Clambake,” so he’d heard about the murder, but just pointed to a rack in the lobby and said, “Put ’em over there.”

“Do you work nights or just days?” I asked as conversationally as I could.

“Just days.”

“Who works nights?”

“Wally.”

Thanks, very helpful.
“He around?”

“He. Works. Nights,” the desk clerk answered as if I weren’t very bright—which perhaps I was not, I realized when I thought about the question.

“I meant, does Wally live on the premises?” Lots of the bigger hotels like the Bellevue had small attic rooms and dormitories where they put up summer help.

“Nooo,” the desk clerk answered slowly, so poor dim me could take it in.

“Thanks.” What was I doing there anyway? Binder and Flynn would have covered all this ground already.

Outside, I gathered my thoughts. The groom was the obvious person who might have had a motive to kill Ray. I had to find out if Tony had slept in his room the night of the murder.

I walked partway down the footbridge and looked back. The Bellevue was the largest and most popular hotel in Busman’s Harbor, the one that was full when the others still had V
ACANCY
signs outside. Nonetheless, it had a slightly ramshackle appearance. Part hotel, part motel, it had been built onto during boom times and left alone during busts. If there had even been architects involved with the various additions, none had paid attention to stylistic or historical continuity.

I knew from long familiarity with the Bellevue’s brochures that its honeymoon suite had a distinctive balcony with a gorgeous harbor view. Scanning its helter-skelter facade, I eventually spotted the balcony. It was three stories up on the far right side, away from the dining room and other public areas.

I scouted for an entrance to that part of the building. When I found it, the outside door was unlocked, not an unusual thing in the daytime when guests would be coming and going and the maids would be hard at work cleaning rooms. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, angling down the twisting hallways toward the part of the building where I thought the honeymoon suite must be. Partway there I caught a break. A sign for the honeymoon suite pointed down a long hallway toward the front of the building. There was only one room at the end. Its double doors were open, a maid’s cart parked in front of it.

Before I could lose my nerve, I walked up and knocked on the doorjamb. “Hello!”

The maid poked her head out of the bathroom. She had on rubber gloves and held a toilet brush. “Hello?” She was Chinese and spoke with a heavy accent. I had no doubt that, like the Russian girl at the Lighthouse, the maid was on some kind of “educational” exchange—which meant she’d paid a middleman an exorbitant fee for a visa and transportation to the States. For that, despite whatever might have been advertised, she’d gotten a minimum wage job. In the worst cases, and I had heard the Bellevue was worst case, “students” were charged virtually every dime they made for room and board. It really was a scandal. I worried what she was most likely “learning” on her educational exchange was what incredible slobs, not to mention poor tippers, Americans could be.

“I’m thinking of staying here for my honeymoon,” I lied. “The guy at the front desk said I could look around.”

“Yes,” she answered carefully. “Very nice room. You like it?”

I understood that this was an opportunity she probably wasn’t getting enough of, a chance to practice her English.

“Beautiful,” I said. And it was. A spacious room with expansive views of the harbor islands and the yachts at their moorings, high enough up that it would be absolutely private even with the curtains open. For form’s sake, I opened the French doors, stepped out onto the balcony, and took in the view, looking across the harbor at the backside of the Snuggles and my parents’ house, solid as a rock, on the top of the hill.

“I heard there was a murder here,” I said to the girl when I went back into the room.

“No, no. Not here.” She shook her head. “The friend of the, the . . . person who dead stay here.”

“A friend of the victim.” Might as well help her with her vocabulary. “How interesting. Did the police question you?”

She nodded yes.

That must have been scary for her.

“I tell them everything they ask.”

“What did they ask?”

“Did he, the friend, sleep in this room that night?”

“Did he?”

“I think so. His clothes all around. He shave in the sink. I’m certain. But he sleep on top of the bed. Not under covers. There was a . . . a . . .” She struggled to find the word. “Like this.” She went to the bed and lay on top of the bedspread. Then she got up and pointed to the slight dent her body made. “See—where he sleep on top.”

So Tony had been in the room, at least for a while. But he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Prewedding jitters, or because something had caused him to leave the room before he got into bed? I wondered what Binder and Flynn thought of the maid’s answers. A dent in a bedspread and some whiskers in the sink weren’t evidence that the groom had slept there through the night, as far as I was concerned.

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet, handed it to the maid, and said I would strongly consider the Bellevue for my honeymoon.

As I tossed my empty tote bag on my shoulder, my stomach rumbled. Lunchtime . . . actually almost past it. I crossed the footbridge and headed straight to Gus’s.