Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (19 page)

From a young age she’d been taught to strive for excellence. Only recently had she begun to wonder if, in that striving, she hadn’t allowed enough room for error—for the inevitability of her own human error. Over the last few months she’d also thought a lot about accidents, and she was learning to view them with a kind of neutrality. That they happen, that they are part of life, and that someone isn’t necessarily responsible for them, were all possibilities she’d begun to consider. In her work Brie was always searching for reasons —motives, always probing behind the seemingly accidental for the truth—the cause. Away from her work, for the first time in years, she’d begun to think differently about lots of things. Maybe there just wasn’t a reason or a cause for everything.

And if that were the case, maybe someday she could forgive herself for Phil. Maybe she couldn’t have prevented his death. Since that terrible night she’d believed
she
was the cause. She’d reviewed the scene in her mind a thousand times, finding a thousand ways to blame herself.

Brie had reached the bottom of the hill and headed into the village of Lobsterman’s Cove. A few houses and a white-steepled church lined the road at this end of the village. One gray-shingled house caught her attention. It had a sign suspended from the front porch railing that read
Mabel and Melvin’s Haircuts for All
. Brie smiled, wondering whether it was a mom and pop barber shop, or if Mabel and Melvin were just two acquaintances who’d decided to set up shop together.

She’d just passed the general store and headed down a fork in the road running around the east side of the cove where most of the lobsterboats were moored, when she heard a screen door bang and a voice enthusiastically hail her. “Miss Beaumont, is that you? Miss Beaumont!”

Brie turned and suppressed a smile as she saw bobble-headed Fred Klemper steaming toward her. In the midst of all the human and meteorologic grimness, Fred provided a welcome comic relief. He reminded her of the Road Runner, maybe because of his long, thin neck and the forward pitch to his walk. He tilted dangerously as he loped toward her, so that at any moment Brie expected him to stub his toe and go sailing into the waters of the cove.

“Hello, Fred,” she said as he lurched safely to a stop in front of her. She was fully prepared for a detailed update on “the body.”

“Miss Beaumont, I saw you walking along and, well, I just thought you might wanna check on the body.” The end of his sentence was punctuated with nods.

“I’m sure you’re giving it the best of care in your cooler, Fred. And by the way, you can call me Brie.”

He looked at his shoes in an “aw shucks” kind of way, and his cheeks turned a rosy pink, as if she’d just made a pass at him. She seriously hoped her offer of informality hadn’t been misconstrued.

“The captain’s very grateful for your help, Fred. I’ll let him know that you’re staying on top of the situation.”

His deflated chest puffed up, and he looked at her shyly through thick glasses. “Glad to be of help—I’ve always liked Captain DuLac.”

“Maybe you could help
me
right now, Fred. I’m looking for Jack Trudeau. Do you know which of the boats down there is his?” she asked, gesturing toward the cove.

“The one with the black hull, tied up at the last dock. Down the end of the road there,” he said, raising a scarecrow arm and pointing across the cove. “He’s a rough character, though. You watch your step, Miss Beaumont. Maybe you should bring Captain DuLac with you.”

“I’ll be okay, Fred. By the way, the man who was murdered—Pete McAllister—do you remember him working here on the island a few years ago?”

“Can’t say for sure. Might have, I guess.” Fred suddenly appeared uncomfortable. He buried his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “Gotta get back now,” he said abruptly, his head resuming its familiar motion. “Business to take care of, you know.” Without looking at her he turned and, maintaining his previous angle of trajectory, rushed back toward his store.

“See you later, Fred.” She smiled after him. “They certainly broke the mold,” she said to herself.

Brie wondered about Fred’s apparent discomfort at discussing Pete’s employment on the island. John had told her the islanders could be tight-lipped with outsiders, but she sensed there was something else going on with Fred. He appeared to be intimidated by Jack Trudeau. Maybe even frightened. And he was certainly reluctant to discuss anything that might relate to him.

The north wind tugged at Brie as she moved away from the shelter of the hill and walked down toward the cove. The tide was high, and a number of lobsterboats bobbed up and down next to the wooden docks. Rain had turned the road into a mudhole. She skirted the edge of it, avoiding the mucky ground. Toward the end of the road she crossed over, headed down a small flight of wooden stairs and walked out the dock toward Trudeau’s boat. As she approached she caught the smell of pipe tobacco on the carrying wind.

Pausing beside the boat, she called out, “Ahoy, there.” A tree of a man stepped out of the wheelhouse, pipe in hand. Brie judged him to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. He was easily six-foot-four and broad as the beam of his lobsterboat. A mass of curly black hair covered his head, buffering the impact of his hard blue eyes.

“I’m looking for Jack Trudeau,” Brie said.

“You found him.” The eyes roamed over her.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Come ahead.” As she stepped over the gunwale and into the boat, Brie could feel him weighing and measuring every inch of her.

“You must be the pretty detective everyone’s talking about. You’re stirring up more interest than that body up in Klemper’s store.” There was an edge to his voice as cold as the north Atlantic. “I figured you’d get around to me before long.”

“I’m told Pete McAllister worked for you a few years ago.”

Trudeau stepped uncomfortably close to her, but Brie held her ground on the gently rolling deck and met his gaze with a distillate of pure grit and defiance she’d formulated over twelve years of dealing with tough, often intimidating men. Sensing that her borders were well guarded, Trudeau took a step back, removed the pipe from his mouth, and answered in a tone tinged with respect.

“Pete McAllister was my sternman for a couple seasons. I let him go three years ago during a bad season. Lobsters just dried up that year. Couldn’t afford to pay him.” He took a long pull from his pipe and watched her.

“So, he lived here on the island during that time?” Brie asked.

“That’s right. Rented a little cabin up the east shore from here.” Trudeau jabbed with his pipe stem toward the island. “More of a shack, really—just two small rooms and a privy out back. Guess he liked the seclusion.”

“Was he a good worker?”

“Worked hard enough. It’s a backbreaking job, sternman is.”

“Did he ever have any trouble with anyone here on the island?” Brie waited for his reaction.

Trudeau watched a seagull wheel and land on the choppy water. “McAllister was more interested in his rock climbing than befriending anyone here on the island. He’d have a few drinks up at the Two Claws Bar on occasion. But mostly kept to himself. There was no trouble.” He put the pipe back in his mouth.

“He had a reputation as a womanizer,” Brie said, observing the lobsterman closely. “Was he involved with anyone here on the island?”

Trudeau drilled his eyes into her with such intensity that Brie felt pressure on the back of her skull. “He took the ferry to the mainland most weekends—taught rock climbing over there, I heard. Did his womanizing over there too, I’d guess.” His voice was flat, emotionless, unreadable, but Brie felt a familiar vibration in her gut which always told her one of two things—be careful, or dig deeper in this spot. Trudeau continued, “After the accident he moved away. Was gone within two weeks.”

“Accident?” Surprise came before Brie could mask it. “What happened?”

“McAllister had brought a group of rock climbers he knew over from the mainland. They were going to scale the cliffs on the other end of the island. A girl died that day—girl from Rockland. It was all over the papers. Something went wrong when she was near the top of the cliff. She fell. Name was Megan or Marilyn—something like that, but more unusual.” He took a deliberate pull from his pipe and watched her.

“It would help if you could remember the name,” Brie encouraged.

His brows knit together in an attempt to recover the lost name, and he studied the deck planks underfoot as if it might be written there. Suddenly he brightened. “Madeleine—that was it. Her name was Madeleine. Can’t remember the last name, though.”

The name meant nothing to Brie, but there was a chance it might to someone back at the inn. She thanked Trudeau and climbed onto the dock, conscious of his eyes on her. She was about to leave when a final question occurred to her. Turning back around, she found herself at eye level with the black-haired goliath. “Are you married, Jack?” she asked.

A hint of amusement momentarily warmed the steely eyes. “No, but if you’re interested I’d be glad to let you sample the goods.” His eyes did a lascivious scan of her raincoat, pausing at all the appropriate places.

“Ever
been
married?” Brie asked, ignoring his lewdness.

“Never found anyone worth giving up my freedom for as yet.” Trudeau took a step forward, closing the gap between them. Brie felt his raw lust engulf her. He spoke in a husky voice. “I’d trade my freedom pretty quick for the thrill of hearin’
you
beggin’ me for it every night.”

Brie didn’t miss a beat. “That sounds something like a proposal, Jack. But I’m afraid I have to return to my job in downtown Minneapolis.” She stepped even closer to him and spoke seductively. “If you’re interested, though, we could get a little apartment right on the bus line near police headquarters, and I’ll bet you could find some work in a grocery store nearby—maybe something dealing with seafood.”

Trudeau staggered back, as if the repellent thought had smacked him square between the eyes. “No thanks,” he stammered. “I’d be lost without the sea. I’m sure you’ll find a nice fellow to live on the bus line with you though.”

Brie shrugged as if his lack of interest mystified her. Then she turned and walked off the dock, retracing her steps back along the road.

She had passed two docks when she heard a voice call, “Hello there.” Turning, she saw a young woman hailing her from the back of a lobsterboat. Brie immediately reversed course and headed out the dock, greeting the woman with a wave. As a detective, she’d learned to seize any opportunity that presented itself, and she hoped this one might offer yet another perspective on Pete’s time here. As she neared the end of the dock, Brie recognized the woman’s face. She was the same person who’d been looking out the window at them when they carried the body up to Fred’s store, her shyness of this morning obviously ousted by curiosity.

“You must be the detective that’s sailing on the
Maine Wind
,” she said when Brie was within ten feet of the boat.

“Word travels fast around here, doesn’t it?” Brie said, smiling.

“Sure does. And believe me, once Fred Klemper knows something, the rest of the village will find out within fifteen minutes.”

Brie found her jovial nature a relief after dealing with Jack Trudeau.

“Why don’t you come aboard and have a cup of coffee? Wind’s like a knife today—goes right through you.”

“Thanks,” said Brie. “That’d be great.” She stepped over the gunwale into the boat and followed the woman into the wheelhouse.

“Name’s Anna Marie Stevens,” she said, sitting down on a wooden crate and pouring coffee from an old black thermos into a battered metal cup she’d set on the floor of the wheelhouse. “And this is my boat—
Just Jake
.” Anna said it with warmth in her voice, like one introducing a close friend. “She was my dad’s boat. Jake was his name—Grandpa’s too. When he died two years ago, I took ’er over. Took over his traps too.” She poured the second dose into the thermos top, screwed the stopper back in place, and handed the metal cup to Brie.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” Brie said. She pulled up a second crate Anna had pointed to and introduced herself. “I’m Brie Beaumont.”

“I was keeping an eye on you over there.” She nodded toward Trudeau’s boat. “Jack can be unpredictable.”

“Thanks for that,” Brie said. “I’m tougher than I look, though. You run into your fair share of ones like him in my line of work.”

She studied Anna, who was, without a doubt, the prettiest lobster fisherman she’d ever meet. Her tanned skin set off a pair of spring green eyes, and her long, thick hair, tangled from the strong wind, was as black and wild as a storm wave at night. “I’m surprised people are down on their boats today—the weather’s so bad.” Brie took a large swallow of coffee and her eyebrows went up with surprise. “This is good!”

“I can’t deal with bad weather
and
bad coffee,” Anna joked. “I’m just cleanin’ up the boat a little. This storm’s gonna break by morning, and I wanna head out early. It’s too bad about Pete McAllister,” she said, shifting the topic, undoubtedly driven by her curiosity. “What’s gonna happen with his body?”

“The Coast Guard will pick it up as soon as they can get here.” Brie looked out at the nodding lobsterboats. “Did you know Pete very well? I’m told he lived here for two years.”

“He was friendly enough but didn’t have much interest in the locals. Word went around that he was trying to break into the lobster business—maybe hoping to get his own boat someday. The boat’s only about ten percent of it, though. You need a territory, and believe me, they’re closely guarded. You pretty much have to inherit one to make it in this business.”

“I’m sure it’s no secret that Pete was a womanizer. Did you or anyone you know ever date him?”

“Pete left here most weekends. There was one girl he cozied up to when he first got here, but she and her parents moved away. I heard he liked the submissive type, though, and well, that’s just not me. You gotta be tough to make it in this business. Dad raised me to stand on my own. I could never play games with any man. Someday I’ll find the right guy, but he’ll have to take me the way I am—lobsterboat and all.”