Murder Most Maine (17 page)

“Apparently he thought there was a way station hidden here on the island,” Matilda said. “But I’ve never heard or seen any mention of it, which makes me wonder. Usually, something as unusual as that would have at least a few rumors associated with it. And African-Americans weren’t exactly common in this part of the world—you’d think something like that would be noticed.”

“Did the Underground Railroad come this far north, then?” I asked, clutching the handle of the canvas bag I carried.

“There are a couple of hundred recorded in Maine. This was one of the last stops before Canada, which is where many of the runaways were headed—slavery was illegal on that side of the border.” She glanced over the article again. “I don’t think he found what he was looking for, though. I couldn’t find any other articles about him, and I’m sure if he’d tracked them down, it would have been big news.” She finally noticed the bag in my hands. “But I’m nattering on, and you said you had something to show me. What’s in the bag?” she asked.

“It’s what I came down to talk to you about,” I said, setting the canvas bag down on the table, amidst all the papers. “I found it on a shelf in that little underground room.”

She gave me a confused look. “But the shelves were all empty,” she said. “I checked them.”

“There was one right at the top—you could only see it from the ladder,” I said, pulling the box from the bag and setting it on the table. “This was wedged into it.”

She glanced down at the box with barely contained excitement, but shot me a sharp look as she noticed the broken lid. “And you didn’t leave it there?”

I shrugged. “I probably should have, in retrospect, but didn’t know what it was.”

She touched the splintered wood. “Was it like this when you found it?”

“It happened while I was taking it out,” I said.

“What did you do, take a sledgehammer to it?” Her voice had more than a little edge to it.

“Look and see what’s inside,” I said, ignoring the barb. Even though I probably deserved it, at least a little bit.

Matilda adjusted her glasses and lifted off the broken lid, drawing in a sharp breath when she saw the manacles. “Heavens,” she whispered. She touched them gingerly, as if they might bite, and laid them carefully on the table. Then she picked up the little bit of calico with the crude face. “A child’s doll,” she said. She touched it gently; then she turned to the pages on the table. I didn’t say anything as she leafed through the log. I was curious to see if she came to the same conclusion I had.

“What a strange document,” she said, turning the pages carefully. “From the dates, assuming it was penned by the keeper, it would have been Harry Atherton. I’ll have to check the handwriting, to see if it matches.”

“But what
is
it exactly?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It resembles a lighthouse log—I have two of them down in the museum—but the entries are all wrong. The weather is there, which is fine—but all this stuff about parcels is very strange. Always the same ships,” she said, “and always at night. It almost looks like he was smuggling.”

“Read the last entries, and see what you think,” I suggested.

She flipped through to the last part; I could hear the excitement in her voice. “Natalie, if this is his handwriting—goodness me, he must have written this just before his disappearance!” She looked back down at the page, biting her lip. “The question is, though, where did he go? Did he vanish because someone found out what he was doing, and threatened to turn him in?”

“The log’s date is pretty close to when the slave-catcher was in town,” I pointed out. “And there were the other things in the box, too.”

She looked at the doll and the manacles, and her eyes widened. “The way station on the Underground Railroad …”

I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

“That would explain the body, too. Why it was an African-American.” She bit her lip. “But who was it?”

“I was hoping you could help me figure that out,” I admitted.

She shook her head. “The problem is, we don’t know exactly when the body was placed there; we only have a general time period. There’s no way to know when he died.”

“But he was in the same room with the log,” I said. “And the log ends with the storm. Don’t you think the two must be related?”

She shook her head. “It’s impossible to know. It could have been two separate incidents. Still, though …” Her lined face was alive with excitement. “It almost looks like Harry was using the lighthouse as a way station on the Underground Railroad! This is so exciting, and historically important.” She ran her finger down the page again, reading the entry a second time.

“Have you ever heard of Hatley Cove?” I asked as she turned the page. “He mentions it a lot as a pick-up and drop-off point.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reference to it somewhere. One of the islanders may know about it. Maybe it’s on one of the nearby islands, even; he could easily have used a boat to go to and from it.” She pursed her lips. “I do wonder about that body, though. If he was harboring runaways, could it have belonged to one of the slaves?”

“Or maybe even the slave-catcher,” I said.

Matilda sighed, cradling the scrap of calico with the crudely drawn face in her hands. “We may never know, unfortunately. So many mysteries. Whose doll was this?” she wondered aloud. “And why did she leave it behind?”

I glanced at the manacles. They were still menacing, even now. “Let’s check the handwriting on the lighthouse log—see if it matches.”

“Good idea. It’s down at the museum,” she said, gently placing the items I had brought back into their broken box, cradling it in her arms as I followed her out the front door and down the short hill to the Cranberry Island Museum.

It was a small brick building, most of which had been financed by the Selfridges, a prominent family on the island. One of the Selfridges had built the Gray Whale Inn, in fact—it had started life as a captain’s house, placed far from the pier so that the missus wouldn’t have to suffer the stink of fish.

The smell of dust and age wafted over us as Matilda turned the key and opened the door. Old fishing implements—rusty hooks, rotted nets—adorned the walls, along with photos of the island as it had been more than a hundred years ago. The clothes had changed, as had the style of lobster traps—the metal ones had supplanted the traditional wooden pots—but everything else was eerily similar, down to the ridges of the mountains on the mainland, framed in the distance.

“It’s over here,” she said, picking up a large, leather-bound book that was almost identical to the one I’d found in the hidden room. She picked up the top sheet from the box and compared the handwriting. “The dates and the handwriting match; this was written by Harry.”

“Is there an article about Harry’s disappearance?” I asked. “So we can confirm the date of the last entry?”

“Well, the last entries match,” she said, flipping to the end of the lighthouse log. “Both of them ended in February of 1841. She began rummaging around in the stacks on her crowded desk. “I had a copy of the article on Harry Atherton’s disappearance here somewhere. I also want to check the dates and see if I can find out if there’s any record of a boat starting with ‘S’ landing in Halifax, coming from the Maine area, around these dates.”

“You can do that?”

“I have a colleague up in Yarmouth who specializes in maritime history,” she said. “I’ll give her a call and see what she can come up with. It’s a long shot, but you never know.” She looked at the doll and the manacles. “I’ll have to see if I can find out anything about these, too. You’re sure they were in the box?”

“The manacles were—I’m pretty sure, anyway. The doll was stuffed in behind it, on the shelf.”

Matilda touched it gently, reverently. I wished its crudely drawn lips could talk. “Do you think the doll belonged to the little girl?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” she said. “We may never know. And if so—why would she leave it behind? It seemed to be well-loved—the fabric has seen a lot of wear.”

“Maybe whoever owned it had to leave in a hurry,” I said, thinking of the body that had lain in the lighthouse for so long, and the log hidden on the shelf.

“Or maybe it was a mother’s memento, of a lost child,” Matilda theorized, tracing the hand-drawn features. “If only she could talk,” she said, echoing the thought I’d had just a moment earlier.

My eyes shifted from the doll to the manacles, and a shiver passed through me as I thought of the body in the lighthouse.

Even if the doll could talk, I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.

___

By the time I left the museum, it was almost eleven-thirty—time to head over and see if Charlene needed help with the sandwiches. I couldn’t cook in my own kitchen, but at least I could do something.

I was still thinking about my lighthouse find when I stepped into the Cranberry Island Store about ten minutes later. Several pairs of eyes swiveled to the door as I entered, but there were more smiles than speculative looks, I was happy to see. Charlene was in the kitchen area, making sandwiches.

“Where have you been?” Charlene asked, slapping a few slices of turkey on a piece of brown bread. “I called the inn, but Marge said she couldn’t find you. Gwen’s worried, too.”

“I went down to the museum,” I said, washing my hands at the sink and stationing myself next to her. As I turkeyed a sandwich, I said, “I found something down at the lighthouse yesterday, and I wanted to talk to Matilda about it. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Natalie, it’s not good news.” She bit her lipsticked lip; something about her expression sent a needle of ice through my heart.

“What is it?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. Had someone else died?

She cast a glance over her shoulder at the group assembled on the couches, all of whom were eyeing us with curiosity. Then she leaned over and whispered, “They’ve taken John and Tom to the station on the mainland. They’re interrogating them right now.”

My mouth felt suddenly
dry, and the hand holding the turkey started to shake a little bit. “Why did they take them to the mainland?” I asked in a low voice. “Why not question them here?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “They must really think they’re involved, somehow. I heard the police also got search warrants for both places—they’re probably at John’s carriage house now!”

I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself. In the last three days, my life had turned upside-down. My kitchen was temporarily condemned, the poisoning at the inn was big news in the paper, and now John was a serious suspect in a murder case. What did the police know about him that I didn’t? “I don’t understand,” I said. “What did they find out?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I thought you should hear it from me, rather than through the grapevine.” She added lettuce to a sandwich and turned to me, concern in her blue eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, although in truth I felt completely disoriented—as if the ground was disappearing from under my feet.

“What did you find at the lighthouse?” Charlene asked.

“I found a log of sorts,” I said, although I was no longer very concerned with events that had happened so long ago. Not when people I cared about were threatened in the here and now.

“Is it connected with the skeleton?”

“Maybe,” I said. “There was also a doll, and some manacles. I found them hidden in the room where the skeleton was.”

“Creepy,” Charlene said, shivering.

“No kidding.”

Before we could say more, selectwoman Ingrid Sorenson came over to grill me over what was happening at the inn. I dodged as many questions as I could as we wrapped up the sandwiches and stowed them, along with some fresh fruit and several bottles of water, into a crate.

“Take the truck,” Charlene said, tossing me the keys. “And take your time—I don’t need it today.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful to be leaving the store—and the hungry eyes of the islanders.

___

The dining room was empty when I got back to the inn, but once word spread that food was on the premises, the vacant chairs filled quickly. Gwen and Marge had been waiting for me by the front door, and I had to face a scolding from my niece before I could ask if there were any messages. “Why didn’t you tell Marge where you were going?” Gwen asked, her dark eyes stormy. “I was worried sick about you!”

“I’m sorry, Gwen. I didn’t think.”

“You’ve got some messages, I’m afraid,” Marge said. “Phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

“Reservations?” I asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “Reporters.” I cringed as she ran down the list. Apparently in the brief time I was gone, the Bangor paper had called twice, and the
Daily Mail
three times.

“Please tell me you didn’t tell them anything,” I said.

“I just told them they’d have to talk to you,” she said.

“Hopefully I can come up with a good spin before the next phone call.” I turned to Marge. “Can you let everyone know that food is here?”

“Sure, Miss Nat,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Gwen asked as Marge lumbered to the second floor.

“They’re interrogating John,” I said in a low voice.

Gwen’s hand leapt to her mouth. “No. Do you think … do you think he did it?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe.”

Her eyes widened. “Maybe?”

“He’s been acting so strange lately. I just don’t know what to believe anymore. But I just can’t imagine that John would …” The sentence trailed off, leaving us in an awkward silence.

“Is that lunch?” Gwen asked finally, pointing to the crate of food.

I nodded. “We can’t use the kitchen, so dinner will be down at Spurrell’s, too.”

“This retreat is turning out to be a total disaster, isn’t it?”

I sighed. “All we can do is manage it the best we can.” With that, I hauled the crate into the dining room to face my guests, trying to forget that they had paid top dollar for this retreat—and were being served processed turkey on store-bought bread.

“Sandwiches?” Carissa asked as I laid out the simple meal on the buffet.

“We had something more elaborate planned,” I said, “but we had to improvise. Dinner should be marvelous though—we’re going to eat down at the pier.”

“It will be good to get out of here,” Megan said, glancing around. “It’s like living in a death trap.”

I gave her a brittle smile and handed her a sandwich.

A moment later, Detective Rose appeared at the doorway, accompanied by Greg, who hurried over to join Megan while Carissa glared at him.

“Would you like a sandwich?” I asked, turning my attention to the detective. Charlene and I had made extras for the officers, in the interest of public relations.

“Thanks,” she said, taking one and heading back toward the guest room.

Before she could disappear, I said, “I hear John Quinton has been taken to the mainland for questioning—and that you’ve got someone searching his house.”

“That is correct,” she said in a flat tone of voice that told me I wasn’t going to get much from her.

“Why is he a suspect?” I asked.

“Miss Barnes,” she said, “As you know, I am not at liberty to share the details of the case with you. But since I know you have some involvement with Mr. Quinton …” She paused, and I think I saw a flash of pity in her gray eyes. “You might want to start distancing yourself a bit.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling like she had punched me in the stomach.

“I believe there may be more to their relationship than you are aware,” she said, reaching up to push a clump of iron-gray hair behind one ear. Then she started for the door again. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“My pleasure,” I said, feeling sick as she flashed me another look of sympathy before leaving the dining room.

___

An hour later, the lunch cleanup—which consisted of throwing wrappers into the trash—was finished, and I was at loose ends again.
At least you’re getting a break from dishes
, I told myself. But it was cold comfort.

Everyone who could had deserted the inn—the guests had gotten permission to join Vanessa on another walk around the island, Gwen had headed to visit her boyfriend, and Marge had left for her other job—leaving me alone with the police.

After checking to make sure I was free to leave the inn, I headed down to my skiff. I couldn’t do anything here; but maybe the librarian had turned something up that would help exonerate John.

The motor revved on the first try, and I wrapped my jacket tight around me as I steered it away from the inn. My eyes were drawn to the little carriage house hunkered down next to the inn, remembering all the good times John and I had had there together. Lobster dinners in his cozy dining room, late nights watching old Audrey Hepburn movies and eating popcorn together while a storm raged outside, my head nestled into his warm shoulder …

He couldn’t have murdered Dirk.

Could he?

I forced my eyes from the carriage house, and they moved instinctively to the lighthouse. Yet another unsolved mystery. Why couldn’t anything be simple? I wondered. After a last survey of the island, its houses huddled around the pier, the gray wall of cliffs near the inn, I turned to face the mainland.

The little boat slapped down on the whitecaps as I steered it around a trio of gulls bobbing on the water. As much as I loved the island, it was good to be away from it for a little while—even though the thoughts racing around in my head made it hard to enjoy the scenery.

As the fresh air buffeted my face, I tried processing what Detective Rose had told me. What had she meant when she told me I should distance myself from John? Had she discovered something about him that I didn’t know? Did he, like the lighthouse, have a secret past?

I thought about raven-haired Vanessa, her supermodel figure and her dark exotic eyes. Everything had started with her arrival at the island; she had stirred up all kinds of problems. Had she come back to chase a lost summer romance with John? But in truth, he didn’t seem her type—as handsome as he was, he wasn’t the sort of highly driven man I would expect Vanessa to be drawn to. But I could be wrong about that; after all, as they say, opposites do attract.

But if the two of them had a relationship, why bother to hide it? After all, it’s not like either of them were married. If they wanted to be together, there was nothing stopping them—other than an awkward break-up conversation between John and me, and maybe Vanessa and Dirk. Certainly no legal proceedings.

By the time I docked at Somesville a half hour later, I had done nothing but tie myself up in mental pretzels, and was even more worked up than I had been when I left Cranberry Island. Once the skiff was tied up, I hopped off onto the dock, admiring the little town with its white-painted wood houses and picturesque bridge as I headed for the library. A couple of people smiled as I passed, but without the avid interest I’d experienced earlier at Charlene’s store. As much as I loved Cranberry Island, it was refreshing to not be in a place where almost every person I met stared at me with curiosity—and maybe a hint of suspicion. I pushed the wooden door to the library open a few minutes later; the building still had the serene feel of the church it had been in a previous life. I fervently hoped Audrey had found some answers to my questions.

And if not answers, at least a clue that would point me in the right direction.

The research librarian greeted me as soon as I came through the door, eyes shining behind her rhinestone-studded glasses. “Natalie! So glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” I said, following her to her desk, where she picked up a sheaf of papers. “I haven’t had a chance to make muffins yet,” I said, omitting the fact that the reason I hadn’t had a chance was that the police were inspecting every inch of my kitchen, “but I’ll get them to you soon.”

“No worries,” she said. “And you don’t need to bring me anything—I had fun!”

“Looks like you were pretty successful,” I said, eyeing the pile in her hands.

“I found all kinds of things for you,” she said, handing me the stack. “I don’t know if any of it will be useful, but you never know!”

I studied the top page, which was a news article on Bethany Thomas. “Interesting,” I said.

“What?”

“Bethany Thomas. She’s got a history of obsessions, it seems.”

“And at least two restraining orders to go with them,” Audrey said, raising an eyebrow.

“Delightful,” I said, shivering as I thought of the shrine she’d set up on her dresser. “No wonder Dirk wanted to steer clear of her.”

I flipped through more of the pages, and found several articles by Elizabeth. Evidently the reporter at the inn used to work for one of the daily newspapers.

“You found the articles by your reporter,” Audrey said. “She covered the traffic beat.”

“Not very glamorous work, is it?” I leaned over the counter and looked through the rest of the pages. Not much on Boots or Sarah—just a couple of newspaper commendations for volunteering. Cat had evidently been very active in the Junior League in a town called Evergreen, but that was about all there was on her. Megan and Carissa were also minimally represented; Megan’s wedding announcement had appeared in an Oregon paper in the late ’80s, as was Carissa’s birth a few years later, but that was all.

Greg, on the other hand, turned up some surprises.

“Greg is a private investigator?” I asked.

“If it’s the same person, he’s out of Boston,” she said. “Which is interesting. Several of the lawsuits I found against Mr. DeLeon originated in Boston.”

“So do you think one of his former clients may have sent him to check up on Dirk?”

Audrey shrugged. “No way to know, unfortunately. He does a lot of infidelity work, according to his web site—I printed his photo.”

I glanced down at the color print of a good-looking man in a coat and tie. It did look like Greg—only a few years younger and several pounds thinner than he currently was. Maybe his reason for going to the retreat really was to take off some excess poundage. But the fact that he was a private investigator made me suspicious.