On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (20 page)

“J
AMES
isn’t usually so careless, you know,” Mary Daniels placed one hand on her son’s shoulder and lowered the coffee pot in the other to pour steaming black coffee into Constable Daggett’s cup, “especially not with a brand-new shirt.”

“No, I’m sure James is not careless,” Daggett reached for the sugar.

“Well, I was this time, that’s for certain,” for one second James Daniels looked directly at Daggett. “Before I could catch it, it went overboard. So I’m sorry, Mr. Daggett, I just don’t have that shirt anymore.”

Mary Daniels gestured with the coffee pot toward James. He nodded and raised his cup. She poured his coffee and moved around the table to pour herself another cup. Then she returned the pot to the stove and filled a large plate with freshly baked gingerbread. She placed it on the flower-patterned oilcloth next to Daggett’s notebook. Daggett sat with his pencil poised.

“When did you wear the shirt?”

“I wore it that morning, first day out,” James blew on his coffee, “because of the chill.”

“It was a nice warm shirt,” Mary Daniels sipped from her cup and nudged the gingerbread closer to Daggett.

Daggett lowered his pencil.

“Then, I don’t know,” James glanced at the clock above the stove, “by ten or eleven it warmed up and I took the shirt off. I don’t remember what I was doing, but I put it down on the side of the boat. Guess I wasn’t thinking,” he tried a sip, then blew again on his cup. “Next I knew, it was gone.”

“Notice anything unusual about the shirt?” Daggett helped himself to a piece of gingerbread and pushed the plate toward James, “any loose seams or tears or rips that you remember?”

“Don’t recall any,” James traced the pattern on the oilcloth with his cup. “Why?”

“Buttons missing, anything like that?”

“Don’t think so,” James reached for the gingerbread.

“Sam carry a torch on his boat?”

James paused and cocked his head, “Of course.”

“What size?”

“The usual.”

“Any oversized?”

“The long one, you mean?”

Daggett nodded.

“S’pose so,” James took a large bite of gingerbread.

“Know where he got it?”

“No, why do you want to know?”

“Sam ever run liquor on his boat?”

“Of course not,” James swallowed and swung his head away to cough. Something was caught in his throat.

“James wouldn’t go out with Sam if he did anything like that,” Mary watched until her son stopped coughing.

Daggett pressed on, “You and Sam got back when, did you say?”

“Not until eleven or so,” James cleared his throat and sat straighter in his chair, then glanced again at the clock, “just ahead of the storm.”

“Not enough ahead. James came in dripping wet, he did,” Mary began to laugh.

“That’s true,” James confessed.

“Very soon now he’s going to drip water all over somebody else’s clean floor,” Mary winked at Daggett, “at least he will if Jenny Dawson has anything to say about it.”

Daggett watched the flush rise from the base of James’ neck. It had been a long time since anyone had teased him that way about Elizabeth.

“Got water all over my floor last night, he did,” Mary continued. “Always does,” she raised her hands in a shrug. “That’s a man for you.”

Daggett chuckled, enjoying Mary’s warmth.

“W
HAT
I don’t understand,” Edith trimmed the wick in their oil lamp, “is why anyone would put that flashlight right in the Constable’s lap.” Light leapt again into the corners of their sitting room.

“That is a puzzle,” Willa rested the open pages of Francis Parkman against her stomach. “Perhaps the idea was that if the man turned it in, so to speak, he wouldn’t have to hide it.”

“As long as Daggett has the flashlight, he doesn’t have to find it, is that what you mean?” Edith rose to stir the ashes in the fireplace and put another log on to burn.

“That’s right.”

“Clever,” Edith poked the log into place.

“Yes,” Willa tapped an open pack of cigarettes against her palm.

“And plausible,” Edith settled into her rocker and put her feet on the hassock. Willa moved her slippered feet to make room.

“That would mean our man has a certain assurance and a cool sort of intelligence, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Willa struck a safety match, “at least he would have to be wise to the ways of the police,” she said between puffs.

The Lucky Strikes were damp from the previous night. They had forgotten to put the open pack in the sun to dry.

“That would mean an experienced criminal,” Edith picked up her book, “or a very smart prankster.”

“Exactly,” Willa exhaled.

“S
OMEONE
either knew very well what he was doing and had good reason for doing it,” Daggett nodded to his wife, “or he was confused beyond measure.”

“Well, finish buttoning your pajamas and come to bed,” Elizabeth plumped up his pillow.

“What I can’t figure out is why. Why he was there in the first place,” Daggett sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes and socks.

“No need to figure anything more tonight.”

“Had to be an islander,” Daggett swung his legs under the covers and shoved his shoulders deep into the pillow.

“Why an islander?”

“Who else would carry an oversized torch?”

“But an islander,” Elizabeth turned to Daggett, her voice hushed, “why would an islander kill someone from the States?”

“That’s a good question,” Daggett smiled at his wife. “Of course,” he paused to yawn deeply, “it is still possible that Mr. Bush’s death was accidental.”

Daggett closed his eyes and felt the tension ease out of his body. This was his lull before the storm, his chance to think through what he had to do next. He stretched until he felt his toes reach the bottom of the bed.

“Accidental?”

The pillow next to Daggett’s ear crinkled. Elizabeth was leaning toward him.

“We know that the person in the red shirt was with Mr. Bush, but we don’t know that his actions caused Mr. Bush’s death.”

“Oh. But then how …”

“The person in the red shirt stood close to the cliff, closer than Mr. Bush. And Mr. Bush went off head first. That could suggest a plunge or a leap,” Daggett opened his eyes to glance at his wife, “not a shove. So the correct question is why,” he closed his eyes again.

“And where,” Elizabeth touched his shoulder, “where is that person in the red shirt and why did he hide.”

“Yes,” Daggett felt a second yawn begin somewhere near the base of his diaphragm. “It is also possible,” he struggled to continue around the edges of the yawn, “that the person in the red shirt and the person with the torch are not one and the same.”

“But then why …”

“The person with the torch may simply have been curious about what happened to Mr. Bush,” Daggett forced his eyes open and reached for the clock on the nightstand. “Maybe he was afraid to go during the day. Didn’t want to raise suspicion. Or maybe he couldn’t go then. Tied up at work,” Daggett finished winding the clock and set the alarm for five-thirty, “or maybe he was out at sea.”

“And the red shirt?” Elizabeth propped herself on one elbow.

“The red shirt was free enough to be on the trail at Seven Days Work during at least one afternoon,” Daggett lay back and stared at the pattern on the bedroom’s tin ceiling. Elizabeth had painted it an off-white.

“Wouldn’t that suggest that the man in the red shirt was not an islander?”

Daggett turned his head to face Elizabeth, “That’s another question altogether.”

“Are there others?”

“Well,” Daggett wiggled his toes, “just who was John Thomas Bush? Why did he use an alias? Is Bush a second alias? And what was he doing on Grand Manan?”

“Four good questions.”

“And here’s a fifth,” Daggett reached over to push a stray hair off Elizabeth’s forehead and slip it behind her ear, “who on Grand Manan knew John Thomas Bush?”

“Yes, that is a good one,” Elizabeth nestled her head on her husband’s shoulder.

Daggett reached to extinguish the light.

E
RIC
D
AWSON
heard the rustle a moment before Jocko’s puppy burst through the hedge. The Dawsons’ porch light caught the puppy in full flight. The moment it landed, it leapt again.

“A little late to be walking your dog, isn’t it?”

The sight of Little John Winslow struggling with his son’s puppy over a heavy string grocery sack filled with pink papers was as good as any slapstick in the moving pictures. Little John pulled, the puppy skidded. Then the puppy pulled, and Little John braced his legs. Then Little John began to tip forward.

“Need help?”

“Blasted dog,” Little John planted himself more firmly.

The puppy tugged and swayed. Finally Little John succeeded in raising the sack and brought it to rest on his chest.

“Jocko out this late?”

“In bed with the rest.”

The puppy yapped. Little John stuck a foot out to hold him at bay. The dog grabbed the toe of his boot began to wag Little John’s foot back and forth. Little John ignored him.

“Here,” he handed a sheaf of papers to Eric, “might as well lighten my load.”

Eric raised the top page up to the light.

“Got to distribute these. All of them. Special edition I helped put together,” Little John’s mustache twitched once above his grin.

Emblazoned just below the
Recipe Exchange
was The Dragon Lady, followed by a recipe consisting chiefly of ladyfingers topped with red frosting. Directly across from The Dragon Lady, in equally large letters, appeared Daggett’s Delight, A Rocky Beach Fudge.

“Can’t you and Eva McDaniels find something else to make jokes about?”

“Murder is no joke.” Little John shook his foot, but the puppy’s sharp teeth held tight.

“N
OTHING LIKE THIS
has ever happened before,” Geneva Andrews exclaimed at the door of the room John Thomas Bush had occupied. The door stood open.

Daggett studied the room’s disheveled contents. Drawers from both bureau and wash stand littered the bed. Blankets and sheets and the bed’s yellow chenille spread trailed off its edge and onto the floor. Pillows lay rumpled, one still on its side, its case half torn. Only the rocker remained as it was.

“I just came up to clean Mr. Brown’s room, the next guest comes today,” Geneva rushed through her explanation, “and this is what I found.”

“His name turns out not to be Brown, Geneva,” the cadence of Daggett’s speech was thoughtful. “It was apparently Bush, John Thomas Bush.”

“He lied about his name?”

Daggett watched Geneva’s eyes grow large.

“Seems so.”

“Frightening business this, Constable,” Harvey Andrews’ heavy tread came up the stairs behind them. Harvey nodded toward the open door of the room, “No idea anything might be wrong in here. Never heard a thing.”

Both the stairs and the hallway were carpeted. A thin carpet also covered most of the floor in the room.

“It could have happened any time between Wednesday and today.”

Harvey put his arm around his wife.

Geneva seemed about to cry.

“No one needed the room, so we just left it the way it was after you took his things away.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” Daggett moved forward.

Harvey nodded, “Why would anyone search a room when it was clear that all of Mr. Brown’s … or Mr. Bush’s,” Harvey caught himself, “that all of Mr. Bush’s personal belongings had been removed?”

“That’s a mystery, all right,” Geneva perked up.

Of the two windows occupying the outer wall, one stood open. Not unusual for July, Daggett glanced at the door. No marks near the latch.

“We don’t lock our doors,” Harvey followed the course of Daggett’s gaze. “Never felt the need. May have to now, I suppose.”

“I doubt it. This doesn’t change much on a permanent basis,” Daggett bent down to check under the bed. “Whoever did this probably won’t do anything like it again. Not here anyway,” he finished his inspection. “For now, though, I would like for everyone to stay out of this room,” Daggett pulled the door shut, wrapping his hand first in his handkerchief. “Just until I come back to dust for prints, you understand,” he smiled his reassurance.

“I’m sure Constable Daggett will take care of everything,” Geneva’s responding smile was meant to be brave.

“Back stairs?” Daggett glanced again at Harvey.

“Around the corner there,” Harvey nodded toward the hallway that ran from the main staircase to the rear of the building, “goes down to the kitchen.”

“I’ll have a look,” Daggett led the way, “then I’d like to see your guest list again.”

C
ONSTABLE
D
AGGETT
would simply have to wait until later that evening for the S. S. Grand Manan to return from St. Andrews, Rob Feeney repeated. No way to tell who the passengers would be before the steamer docked in North Head. Yes, Agent Feeney would be happy to give Daggett the lists of passengers and crew from the day John Thomas Bush died. Yes, Feeney had been on the crossing with John Thomas Bush, though he remembered little beyond his suit and his eyes. Especially his eyes. And yes, the fellow named Matthew Johnson had arrived at the dock this morning in time for the crossing. Feeney had noticed he was a little out of breath. Feeney knew him by sight. One of that foursome at Swallowtail. Modern, wealthy, played a lot of tennis. Or so it would seem from his clothes.