Ransom at Sea (20 page)

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“You were not just seen talking to this man, he paid a visit to the boat late in the evening that you were in Sangamore. Then he showed up here. Unless he's a stranger who has suddenly become obsessed with you, you must know him.”

Holmes couldn't look him in the eye. Instead he looked back over the water and sighed. “You're right. I'm not a very good liar. But if I give you my word as a gentleman that this has nothing to do with the murder, can we let it go at that?”

Your word as a gentleman who has been lying to the police?
Ransom thought. “I'm afraid not.”

“So be it,” Holmes said curtly. “If you must know, that man is a client of mine.”

“I understood you were retired.”

“A former client. I just … ran into him in Sangamore, and offered to give him some advice. Professional advice, I mean. That's all I can say about that.” He gave a single nod, indicating that was an end to the matter. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wash my hands for lunch.”

Ransom watched with a certain degree of admiration as the back of the rail-thin beige suit disappeared around the corner. He disliked being lied to, and disliked even more being stonewalled regardless of whether or not he was convinced of the validity of his own investigation. But he couldn't help admiring the fading dignity with which Holmes had managed to accomplish it.

Ransom went up the stairs and glanced into the dining room. Douglas was just laying a platter of decoratively arranged meats and cheeses on the buffet table. After he set it down a short, stout woman who Ransom took to be the ship's cook made a slight adjustment to it, then followed David back in the direction of the kitchen. Lily DuPree was already seated at one of the tables waiting for service to begin, and Bertram Driscoll was leaning against a portside window, drink in hand, staring out at the scenery.

Ransom continued to the top deck, which he found empty. Rather than remain idle he went down the boarding plank and followed the path around to the front of the general store. The door opened with a loud
sproing
occasioned by the large, long metal spring used to pull it shut. Nothing had been done to disguise the warehouse origins of the store: the walls were knotty, age-worn bare wood, the rafters exposed, and the lighting provided by low-hanging fluorescents of the type that Ransom associated with turn-of-the-century newsrooms. Long rows of shelves contained everything from potholders to beef jerky, to Bon Ami, to disposable cameras: a sign that though the store might be old-fashioned, the proprietors knew enough to carry whatever would sell. An antique, top-loading Coca-Cola cooler was just to the left of the door, though Ransom was rather disheartened to find it filled with canned sodas of every variety.

Along the north wall there was a low counter with stools. A hand-printed menu was tacked to a corkboard on the wall behind it. The menu consisted of three different kinds of sandwiches, none requiring cooking, and a choice of coffee or soda. The store was empty except for a woman seated at the counter looking down at an open newspaper, her blasé expression indicating that the news of the world was providing a very unexciting diversion. She was a solidly built woman with a round face. Her hair was dark gray and she wore it pinned in a loose bun on top of her head so that it resembled a wilting chef's hat. Over her gray dress she had tied a stained, bibbed apron. She hadn't looked up when Ransom came in, apparently accustomed to tourists who would look around and leave without making a purchase. She didn't raise her eyes from her reading until he was at her side.

“Yup? Can I help you with something?”

“Mrs. Friendly?”

“Uh-huh?”

“My name is Detective Ransom. I take it you've heard about the murder that happened yesterday on the
Genessee?
”

“Joe Barnes was in here, already talked to me about it.”

“Sheriff Barnes has kindly allowed me to do a little investigating of my own,” he said lightly.

“You don't say?” The dint that appeared between her eyebrows was the only indication she gave that this news had made any impression on her.

Ransom noticed the windows at the back of the store. They faced out toward the dock but were covered by faded floral curtains.

“He asked you if you saw anything? Anyone going to or from the boat?”

She nodded, the pile of hair moving out of sync with her head. “Uh-huh.”

“And did you?”

“Nope. Nary a soul.”

“Too busy?” He asked with a smile.

She grinned. “I'm never too busy here. Just not interested. And I always have the curtains back there closed in the morning. Sun's just too damned hot.”

“No, I meant too busy because I understood you had some customers yesterday morning … from the boat?”

“Hoke was here,” she said.

“You know him?”

She nodded again, causing the same disconnected motion of her hair. “I know who he is.
Genessee
's been here now and again this past couple of summers. I know the Farradays, too.”

Ransom's right eyebrow went up. “Did they come in yesterday?”

“Nope. But I know them just the same.”

He smiled. “Of course. Now, the people I was referring to were two men who came in sometime before the murder and had coffee.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mrs. Friendly replied, her face lightening. “Guy with white hair and one a little younger, not so gray. Nervous guy.”

“How long did they stay, do you remember?”

“Well, the younger one come in first, and asked for a cup of coffee. The second one, he come a little bit later, and he had one, too.”

“But how long did they stay?”

She pursed her lips. “Only so long as to finish the coffee. Not long. They didn't linger over it or anything.”

“Did you happen to hear anything they talked about?”

“No ‘happening' about it. You can see how quiet it is here. You can't help but hear what people are talking about, even if they try to keep their voices low.”

“Anything you think might be important?”

“Naw. They didn't say much of anything except chitchat about the weather and such like, and the drive up here and all.”

“I see.”

“What're you looking for, anyway?”

Ransom heaved a sigh. “I wish I knew. Anything that might shed some light on what happened.”

She flapped a flabby hand. “Joe got that all sewed up.”

“He's done a very good job,” Ransom replied. Despite his abhorrence of soft-soap, he wasn't above using it when called for. “But it's always best to be sure where murder is concerned.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Friendly gave a slight nod, which caused the mass of hair to lurch forward, where it stayed until she shoved it back with her right palm.

“So, the two men were here for only a short time, and didn't say anything of importance. Did they leave together?”

“Oh, yeah,” she replied broadly. “They were in a hurry to get back to the one's motel to have a talk.”

“Oh, so one of them was staying here?”

“Not the white-haired one, I don't think. It was the younger one that said they could go back to his motel room, I think.”

“Which motel would that be, do you know?”

She shrugged her massive shoulders. “Imagine the Lakeview. It's the closest. Isn't another motel for at least ten miles. 'Course, that don't matter with a car. You want to know where it is?”

He shook his head. “That's where I'm staying. One other thing: did you happen to see a pair of hikers yesterday morning?”

“In here?” she said. “No. It's a little early in the season for them.”

Ransom returned to the boat feeling anything but satisfied. Despite Sheriff Barnes's doubts, Emily's concerns, and Lynn's hopes, the detective didn't think he'd made much progress in disproving Rebecca Bremmer's guilt, or learning anything of importance, for that matter.

Once back on the boat Ransom went down to the red deck and looked in the window. Lunch was now being served, once again buffet style. Lily DuPree was at the table where Ransom had seen her earlier, and Emily had joined her. Muriel Langstrom was at a table across the room from them in the company of a man to whom Ransom had not yet been introduced. Also strangers to him were the man and woman seated at the table next to Lily's. Stuart Holmes and Bertram Driscoll were at the buffet table helping themselves to the various dishes, and Hoke and David were serving.

Emily glanced toward the window, and when she saw Ransom she gave him a meaningful nod, then pushed back her chair and got up. She came out and joined him.

“Oh! Jeremy, good, you're back,” she said in the slightly abstracted way she sometimes lapsed into when something was on her mind.

“Who's the man with Muriel?” he asked.

“What? Oh! That's Jackson Brock.…”

“And the couple—that would be the Millers?”

“Yes … but before you talk to them, I thought you should know that Claudia Trenton hasn't been seen this morning.”

“What do you mean she hasn't been seen? Do you think something's happened to her?”

“No, not at all,” Emily replied with surprise. “She's not dead.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Now, Jeremy,” she said in a mildly reproachful tone. “When Claudia didn't appear for lunch I asked Joaquin if he knew where she was. He said she hasn't been out of her cabin. She didn't even allow him in to make up the room. Now, that seems rather significant to me. Does it to you?”

“Not necessarily. Someone's been murdered. She could just be very upset.”

Emily's eyebrows peaked. “Claudia Trenton? You think that because you haven't met her yet. As far as I know, she barely knew Marcella Hemsley. And I know she found her rather irritating.” A hint of a smile appeared. “At any rate, she isn't having lunch. Perhaps this would be a good time to talk to her.”

Ransom emitted a sigh of resignation. “All right.”

He started down the stairs, but stopped and turned around when he realized she was following him. “Shouldn't you be having your lunch?”

“I thought I'd come with you. If she
is
so upset about the murder that she hasn't left her cabin, having a stranger appear at her door might upset her even more.”

He grinned. “And here I thought you were just curious. Come along.”

He preceded her down the stairs and gave her his hand as she stepped off of them.

“Which cabin is she in?” he asked as they went down the corridor.

“Number one.”

It was located at the far end on the left, and when they reached it Ransom raised his hand to knock, but Emily stopped him.

“Let me.” She gingerly tapped on the door with her fingertips. When there was no answer, she did it again.

“If she's asleep she's not going to hear that,” Ransom said, growing impatient.

It was then that they heard the voice from within the cabin. It was distinct but devoid of energy. “Yes?”

“Claudia? It's Emily Charters. Can I have a word with you?”

There was a long pause before the lifeless voice replied. “Come in.”

Ransom stood to the side as Emily opened the door. Claudia was lying on the bed in the same light green suit she'd worn the day before, its wrinkles showing it had been slept in—if sleep had ever come to her. One hand lay limply at her side, the other was draped just below her breasts. She was staring at the ceiling.

“Claudia? Are you all right? I haven't seen you today. I was worried.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Emily's brow knit questioningly at the incongruous reply. “No, I imagine not. Are you feeling unwell?”

“No.” There was a brief pause. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need to see a doctor?”

“No, no,” Claudia said wearily. “I just want to be left alone.”

Emily had remained by the door during this exchange. Now she came into the room and quietly crossed to the bed. Once she was closer to Claudia, she could see that her eyes were bloodshot and her face very wan.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Emily asked.

“Yes. Please … all I need is to be left alone.”

“Yes,” Emily said kindly, “I understand that. However, we do need to speak with you.”

For the first time the other woman turned her head and looked at Emily. “We?”

“Yes. The police are still looking into poor Marcella's death. They're asking all of us additional questions.”

“The police?”

Emily didn't miss the tremor in her voice. “Yes. A very nice young man from Chicago is helping Sheriff Barnes. He's waiting outside to talk to you.” When Claudia shot a nervous glance toward the doorway, Emily quickly added, “He's already talked to most of the rest of us. There's nothing to be anxious about. I'll stay here with you.”

There was a brief but unmistakable spark of gratitude in Claudia's eyes. But then her face hardened as if unexpectedly caught by an Alberta clipper. She sat up, though not quickly, and planted her feet on the floor.

“I suppose you can stay if you like,” she said as if conferring a boon upon one of the peasants.

“Thank you,” Emily replied, smiling inwardly. Then she looked toward the door. “Detective Ransom?”

As he came into the room Emily could sense the increased tension emanating from Claudia.

“Miss Trenton?” said Ransom. “Are you all right? We were worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” she said in the manner she used to let people know they were being held at arm's length. But after a beat, she continued uncertainly. “I'm … it's just that I've had a very bad headache this morning. I'm subject to migraines.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Did you take something for it?”