Fogged Inn (9 page)

When Gus and Chris returned from shopping, I helped them carry the refrigerated items up to my apartment. Le Roi fussed at the intrusion. He still wasn't keen on Chris, and he viewed the sudden appearance of Gus as beyond the pale.

When we got back downstairs, Gus turned to us and said, “Time for you two to go. I'll be fine here.” We both protested, but Gus said firmly, “I'm sure you have things to do. Gus's is first and always a one-man operation. Now scat.”

Chris said, “I do have summer houses to check on.” One of his myriad jobs, an extension of his landscaping service, was tending to empty houses over the winter. With the recent ice and cold snap, he needed to make sure there weren't any plumbing issues or tree damage. When Gus went back to the grill, Chris turned to me. “What are you up to?”

I told him the sad saga of the gift certificates. I didn't say specifically that I thought they'd been stolen. I didn't want to discuss it in front of Gus.

“That doesn't sound like you, to lose something important like that,” Chris said.

“I keep thinking about that guy in the walk-in, going over and over what everyone said and did that night. I'm convinced the couples in the restaurant were brought there that night for a reason, even though they all said they didn't know the dead guy or each other when they talked to the cops. While Binder and Flynn are in Augusta today, I want to check a few things out,” I said.

“That's the spirit,” Gus shouted from the other side of the room. “Solve this mystery, get rid of that damn yellow tape.” He gestured toward the walk-in. “Life goes back to normal.”

Chris didn't repeat his caution about leaving things to the professionals. He took off, and I went upstairs. I couldn't easily discover who bought the gift certificates, or who stole them for that matter, if they had, indeed, been stolen, but I could certainly find out how the couples who used them had come by them. I shrugged into my L.L.Bean winter coat and headed for the door.

* * *

I went to my mom's and picked up my car, a maroon '71 Chevy Caprice. It was what Mainers called a “winter beater,” a disposable wreck to be ditched as soon as it needed a major repair. As always, I muttered a little prayer of gratitude when it started. The heater worked sporadically at best. Sometimes it required miles and miles of driving to come up to temperature. Other times it spewed foul-smelling, superheated air. I pulled out of the garage, drove down Main Street, then headed out of town and up the peninsula.

Ten minutes later, I turned off the highway onto the access road for Busman's Harbor Hospital, passed the hospital, and kept going. The Baywater Community for Active Adults was just a few miles farther down the road, perched on a site that gave most of its homes a good view of Townsend Bay. I slowed as I approached the gatehouse, but the skinny wooden barrier was in the up position. So many retirees from other places came to Maine looking for “gated communities.” It was easier for developers to install these silly structures than to ask the obvious question, “Who do you want to keep out?”

The houses in the community were side-by-side duplexes, single story with huge garages that fronted on the road. There were about a hundred of them, all painted in bright pastels more reminiscent of the tropics than the rugged Maine coast. I crawled along in the Caprice until I spotted the Caswells' address, 15 Lupine Road. Of the couples who'd used the gift certificates, I knew the Walkers best, but I'd instinctively headed for the Caswells' house first. Caroline and Henry, with their pixie looks and twinkling eyes, seemed so friendly.

Caroline looked a little puzzled after she answered the bell, but rallied immediately and greeted me graciously. “Julia, please come in.”

We passed through a hallway into a great room that combined living room, dining room, and kitchen. The design was modern, but the Caswells' furniture was traditional. It must have come from their preretirement family home, wherever that had been.

“Henry's in his study,” Caroline said. “Let me just call him. Hen-RY! Julia Snowden's come calling.”

She offered coffee, which I accepted, and the three of us gathered around the glass table where they must eat their informal meals. Through the sliding door, I spotted a full bird feeder on the deck, moving with the wind, ready for winter visitors.

“I assume you're here to talk about what happened,” Henry said, once we'd settled in.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “That poor man. What Chris and I can't figure out is how he got in the walk-in. I wondered if you remembered anything.”

Henry's bright blue eyes met his wife's brown ones. “The police were here yesterday asking questions. And Caroline and I have talked too, trying to figure it out. It's unsettling. We were with him that night, and now he's dead.”

“Had you ever seen the man before?”

“Never,” Henry answered. “Have the police figured out who he was?”

Caroline brought steaming cups of coffee to the table, and I took a sip. It was strong and tasty, warming me from the inside out. Although the Caswells' home was new and much tighter than the usual drafty Busman's Harbor dwelling, I was still chilled through from my car ride.

“Not that I know of. Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn are in Augusta today at the autopsy, so I haven't spoken to them,” I answered. “Did you notice anything in particular about the man who died?”

“Sat at the bar by himself. Wasn't sociable. Is that what you mean? We told all this to the police,” Henry said.

So they hadn't noticed the scar and the prosthetic ear. Even when they'd moved into the bar, they'd sat behind him. His dark hair was long and curly. Maybe Chris and I were the only ones who'd noticed, since we faced him from behind the bar. I asked the question that had brought me there. “Just one more thing. You paid partially that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”

“It came in the mail last week. I assumed it was a promotion to get people to try the restaurant.” Henry looked at me. “It wasn't?”

“I didn't mail that gift certificate to you.”

“I thought it was funny the expiration date was so soon,” he said.

“Last week was the short week with the Thanksgiving holiday, and we didn't make it to your place,” Caroline added. “But when we got home from our daughter's and there was no food in the house, your restaurant seemed like the perfect solution. We really had a lovely meal. You're doing a great job. Of course, I would have been happy to have left a little earlier.”

“Do you know any of the other diners who were there Monday night? I noticed you all talking in the bar.”

“I don't really know any of those people,” Caroline answered. “We were trapped together, and it seemed polite to chat a little, but I don't remember the conversation getting more intimate than the weather.” Beside her, Henry nodded his agreement.

That was my memory too. There didn't seem to be much more to say. My next stop was going to be the Bennetts way out on Eastclaw Point. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked.

“Surely, come along. The powder room is right through there.” Caroline directed me to an area off the kitchen where a long hallway led to a guest room, study, and a full guest bath. I used the facilities quickly and started back up the hall when something in the study caught my eye. Over the desk was a framed diploma for Henry Caswell from the Yale School of Medicine. So the women at the Sit'n'Knit had been right. He was a doctor. Yet I was sure I'd heard people address him as “Mr. Caswell.” I had even done it myself, and he never corrected me.

I thought about remarking on the diploma, but I'd sort of been snooping and couldn't figure out how to bring it up. I went back to the great room, where Caroline met me and walked me to the front door. I pulled on my coat, thanked her, and went on my way.

It was a bit of a drive back down the peninsula toward town and then on out onto Eastclaw Point. Busman's Harbor was shaped like the top portion of a lobster lounging in the sea. The head of the lobster formed the town, and the claws, called Eastclaw and Westclaw Point, reached out to embrace the big harbor, leaving just enough of a channel for sizable boats to enter and exit.

When I was little, all the houses on the points were summer homes. A few were kept open until Christmas or New Year's for family gatherings, but they were exceptions. Most of the imposing “cottages” were unheated. In the old days, the town didn't even bother to plow the road. But slowly, over the course of my lifetime, more than a few homes were converted to year-round residences. There were still long stretches of road where the houses, set off on little lanes or down long driveways, were obviously empty. I thought it would be a tough life, alone out here through a Maine winter, without the comforts and companionship of town.

Toward the end of Eastclaw Point, the road split, each spur going off to one of the spits of land that gave the point its clawlike shape. Just past the fork, I spotted a sign that said BENNETT and turned into a pea gravel drive. I was aware of a house looming off to the left as I pulled in, but it was the view in front of me that grabbed my attention. Waves crashed on boulders at the end of a big lawn, sending spray into the air. Across the water, two islands rose up—tiny uninhabited Craigie Island and Dinkum's Light beyond. The sea smoke off the water made them look like mirages. I stood, captivated for a moment, and then approached the front door.

Deborah Bennett opened it before I knocked. She must have heard the Caprice come up the drive. When she greeted me, her tone was a bit overeager, confirming my suspicion that it must be lonely out here at the end of the road.

“Ms. Snowden, so nice to see you again so soon.”

“Please, it's Julia.”

“And I'm Deborah.” She put a hand on my elbow and drew me inside. “Let me take your coat.”

The mask of her plastic surgery always threw me. Her face wasn't ugly, but it wasn't human, either, and that alone was enough to repel. She hung my coat in a closet off the big entrance hallway and led me into the living room. Walking ahead of me, she was a lean, fit figure in black slacks and a pearl gray sweater. Whatever she'd looked like before the surgery, I guessed she'd been pretty.

The living room was gorgeously decorated, formal as the large room demanded but in the colors of the beach. French doors opened onto a stone porch that faced the view I'd just been amazed by. Deborah was a fabulous decorator, as the room attested, but her interiors couldn't compete with the exterior, and didn't try.

She offered me coffee or tea. I asked for water, and she led me through the high-ceilinged formal dining room into an enormous, brand-new kitchen.

“This place is beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you. It was a long, hard slog to get here. Phil and I have owned the house for more than thirty years, but a little over a year ago we started a major overhaul so we could live here full-time when he retired.”

“Maine can be tough in the winter,” I said. It had been sixteen years since I'd spent a full winter in Maine. When I'd arrived back the previous March, it had been still more than technically winter. As a result, I'd suffered some of the inconvenience, but not the sheer duration, of month after month of too short days, long dark nights, low temperatures, and a variety of pelting precipitations.

“We're going to get out for a couple of months in Palm Beach,” she answered, like she'd heard remarks about the challenges of Maine winters many times before. “Would you like a tour?”

I replied enthusiastically. She walked me through room after room. Since the house had water on three sides, every one of the six large bedrooms had a sea view, along with a private bath. On the landing, she pointed upstairs to the third floor. “Phil's studio. We won't disturb him.”

I nodded to show I understood, and we walked down the grand staircase.

“This was an old family summer house when we bought it, and we left it that way for years,” Deborah said. “We wanted a place where the whole family could gather, our sons and their friends, and later, their wives and the grandchildren.” We returned to the kitchen, where my glass of water still sat on the big island. Deborah and I perched on stools, and she asked, “Tell me, Julia, why are you here?”

I'd been expecting the question. In fact, I'd been expecting it sooner. “I'm concerned about the man who died in our refrigerator,” I said. “As far as I know, the police still haven't identified him. I came to see if you or your husband remembered anything about him at all. Anything that would help.”

“The police were here yesterday. We told them all we knew.” She put me off, but her body language was open and inviting. I found it easier to read her body than her mask of a face.

I tried again. “I feel so badly for his family.”

She glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. “Phil will be coming down any minute for his lunch. Perhaps you'll stay and we'll talk?”

No sooner had she finished the sentence than we heard Phil's footsteps on the stairs, descending from the third floor. When he entered the kitchen, his shirt was dabbled with colorful flecks of paint and he smelled vaguely of paint thinner.

I rose from my stool. “Mr. Bennett, Julia Snowden.”

“You must call him Phil,” Deborah said.

“I didn't know you painted, Phil.”

“You must have seen his work throughout the house,” Deborah said. “The oils.”

I had seen them. And wondered about them, because they weren't the dramatic seascapes I would have expected in a house like this. They were portraits. Portraits of ordinary people—farmers, cleaners, lobstermen. They were somehow hyperrealistic, so that I could see every whisker and wrinkle, every darker fleck of color in the iris of an eye. But mostly they seemed to speak through the canvas with a kind of truth, not merely about the subject's profession or circumstances but about his or her character.

Deborah put bowls of chopped radicchio, tomatoes, scallions, and fresh jalapeños on the island, along with a plate of corn tortillas. Then she deftly cooked a piece of white fish on the professional range.

While she worked, I asked Phil about his trek to visit the accident scene with Chris and Barry Walker. “Did the man at the bar leave the restaurant before you, Chris, and Barry went out to see the wreck?”

Phil leaned back on his stool, his brow wiggling behind his glasses with the effort to recall. “I think so. Yes, he left before us.”

“Did you see him out on the street, maybe gawking at the accident?” I tried to think of reasons, on a cold, icy night, why the stranger hadn't gone right back to the Snuggles. The corner of Main and Main was just down the hill from the inn, and maybe the bright lights from the emergency vehicles had attracted his attention.

“No, nothing like that. Barry Walker fell and slid down the hill. There was a lot of commotion, and I'm not certain I would have noticed if the poor man had been there, but I certainly didn't see him.”

“Do you know any of the other couples who were at the restaurant Monday night?” I asked.

Phil looked over at Deborah, who stood with her back to us, in the sound cocoon created by the stove vent and sizzling fish. “I've been in Barry Walker's art supplies store a few times.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

Deborah put the fish on the table and pulled a bowl of creamy white sauce from the refrigerator. She handed each of us a cloth napkin and sat down to eat. I copied their motions as they wordlessly layered the fish, veggies, and sauce on the tortilla. As soon as Deborah took a bite, I rolled mine up and dug in.

“This is fantastic,” I said. And it was. The crunch of the veggies, the light taste of the fish, and the savory sauce combined to make a delicious meal.

“It's hard to get fresh vegetables here in the winter,” Deborah said.

I nodded, my mouth full.
It's only December. You ain't seen nothin' yet.

“Phil likes a proper lunch,” Deborah added. Phil Bennett showed none of his wife's friendly manner. He'd answered my questions fully yet formally. Deborah was warmer. Anxious to be helpful, she dredged up every detail she could from that night, and frequently punctuated her conversation with remarks like “That poor man” and “It's awful that his family may be looking for him, not knowing what's happened.” As lunch went on, I found myself less distracted by her face.

As to the gift certificate, it had come in the mail, just as the Caswells' had. “I was surprised by how soon the expiration date was,” Phil said, “but I figured you wanted people to try out the restaurant sooner than later because it was new.” A business rationale made sense to a former Big Pharma executive like Phil.

“Do you still have the envelope?” I asked. “Was there anything else in it?”

Phil knit his eyebrows together over his spectacles. “You mean you didn't send it?”

“I haven't done any sort of promotion like that.”

Behind the mask, the color drained from Deborah's face. “That's unsettling.”

“I'm sure there's a logical explanation,” Phil reassured her. He turned to me. “I think the envelope and insert might be in the wastebasket in my study. It's on the way out. I'll walk you. We've spent enough time on this.”

Phil had dismissed me as if I were a bothersome employee. I didn't like it, but I had to admit I'd gotten what I came for.

They got off their bar stools and stood side by side. Despite Phil's spare tire, they were both tall and straight-backed, with a regal bearing. If the Caswells were pixies, the Bennetts reminded me of a pair of Afghan hounds.

I said good-bye to Deborah, and Phil led me to his study, which was off the front hall. The room was as formal and as lovely as the rest of the house. He fished a number ten envelope out of the trash and handed it to me, then walked me to the door.

“Julia, I understand your concern about the man who died in your restaurant, but I have to ask you not to come bothering Deborah again. She's not as strong as she looks. She's suffered from panic attacks for years. We have them under control with medication, but stress is the worst thing for her.”

I said, “Of course, I understand,” as he firmly guided me out the front door and closed it behind me.