Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (23 page)

“Thanks so much, Fred,” John said, shaking his hand. “You’re a life saver.” The irony of the phrase dawned on him as soon as it escaped his lips.

“Glad to be of help, Captain,” Fred said gravely, momentarily straightening up to his full six-foot-three height.

“The Coast Guard will be here tomorrow, and you can get things back to normal,” John said.

Fred visibly deflated. Brie felt a little sorry for him, knowing his moment of glory would be so short lived. They left by the front door and walked across the porch toward the truck. Below the hill the waters of the cove stretched out in front of them like black velvet.

“I’ll sit back in the bed if you want, Scott,” George said.

“Don’t worry about it, George,” Scott said, hoisting himself over the side of the pickup. Brie loved seeing men make that particular move—placing their hands on something chest high and simply vaulting over it. She had coined it the hormonal vault, because it so captured the impulsive agility of young men.

John, Brie and George piled into the front seat and waved to Fred. He had paused on the porch, shoulders slightly hunched, one gangly arm raised in a goodbye—a stark contrast to Scott’s athleticism.
Poor Fred
, Brie thought. He had been unlucky in what emerged from the gene pool, and she sensed it had led to a solitary and lonely life. Had he been in a more populated place, he might have found a mate, but here on the island his chances were slim. She inwardly wished him happiness.

John turned the truck around in the road and headed back out of town. It was a small pickup, and three adults across the front seat made for close quarters. As they bounced along the gravel road heading back up the hill to the inn, Brie was acutely aware of her body pressed against John’s. She was also aware of a pleasant warmth that started in the pit of her stomach and traveled through her body. She remembered his playfulness in the library that afternoon and glanced over at him, trying to pick up a vibe. It immediately struck her that the only thing he was probably feeling right now was exhaustion. She hoped her closeness gave him a little comfort after this awful day.

It was 9:20 when they pulled up the driveway to the inn and parked in front of the garage. They headed down the flagstone path that led to the back door. Inside everyone was congregated in the kitchen waiting for them.

“Betty finished the dinner a little while ago,” Glenn said, “but we wanted to wait until you four got back. Everything go all right?” he asked, studying John’s face.

“Yup,” John said, without elaborating. But Glenn could hear the tightness in his voice, and see it in his body—the laid-back ease with which he normally moved replaced by a kind of arthritis of anxiety.

“It smells wonderful, Betty,” George said.

“Well, Alyssa gets half the credit,” Betty said. “She helped with everything. Now, everyone carry the food into the dining room so we can get started.”

Glenn picked up the stoneware tureen filled with chicken and dumpling stew, and Alyssa followed with a big bowl of mashed potatoes that smelled of butter and garlic. Will carried in a large bowl of salad, dressed with honey-mustard vinaigrette. Howard brought two wooden boards, each holding a loaf of crusty, piping-hot bread, and John, bringing up the rear, carried two carafes of coffee. Everyone gathered around the big table in the dining room, which sat twelve people—the total number of guests that the inn could accommodate. They passed the food around and started eating, and there was no shortage of grateful comments once everyone sampled Betty’s cooking. Tense shoulders relaxed and stomachs were silenced as a powerful culinary contentment settled on the group.

“Betty, this is really delicious,” John said. “Thank you.”

“Alyssa, maybe Betty will give you her recipe,” Rob suggested.

“She’s certainly earned it,” Betty said. “She helped me get this dinner together in record time.”

“John, I’ll come back to the ship with you and help you get the radio repaired,” Glenn said. “If you’re weighing anchor tomorrow, you’ll need it fixed.”

“Thanks, Glenn.”

As they ate, Brie saw fatigue on the faces of her shipmates. After asking each of the passengers where they were from, Glenn and Betty let them eat quietly, and talked with John and Brie, who sat across the table from them.

“Glenn has been telling me about Ben and his lighthouse,” Betty said. “Have you been out to visit him yet?”

“Not yet. I’ve been busy getting the
Maine Wind
ready for the season,” John replied. “I’ve got a break in my cruise schedule in July, and I’m planning to get out there then.” He turned to Brie to explain. “Six months ago my friend Ben inherited a lighthouse out on Sentinel Island. The light has been inactive for years. Ben’s friend, Harold McCann, willed the property to him when he died. Harold’s father had purchased it from the lighthouse service in the 1960s. Harold was a bit of a recluse. He never married and had no close relatives. Ben was the only one who ever went out there to visit him. Harold left the place to him when he died, and now Ben plans to live out there in the summer. He’d always hoped to buy a place on an island one day.”

“Sounds like a dream come true—having your own lighthouse,” Brie said.

“That’s what Ben thinks, too. He went out there in April and has been busy painting and doing repairs.”

“Is Ben married?” Brie asked.

“He’s a widower—his wife died five years ago. This is the first thing I’ve seen him really excited about in years. I think it’ll be good for him.”

Within twenty minutes everyone had finished dinner, and Betty served up strawberry rhubarb pie à la mode to go with the coffee. After dinner John sent Scott and George out to load all the equipment into the truck, while everyone else helped clean up from the meal. Glenn went upstairs to gather his tools and parts to repair the radio, and at 10:20, after thanking Betty and Glenn for their hospitality, everyone headed out to the truck. John told Brie and Alyssa to sit up front with Glenn, and he hopped in back with the other men for the drive down to the yawl boat.

GLENN PARKED THE TRUCK on the side of the road near where the yawl boat was tied up, and everyone piled out. Brie noticed Anna’s lobsterboat still tied up where it had been earlier. There was a light on.

“I’ll be right back, John,” Brie said.

“Okay,” he said over his shoulder as they began unloading the gear.

Brie walked down to the dock and stopped next to Anna’s boat. “Ahoy,” she called.

Anna stepped up out of the cabin, looking surprised. She smiled when she saw it was Brie. “Hey,” she said.

“I saw the light in your wheelhouse and just wanted to make sure everything was all right,” Brie said.

“Thanks, Brie—that’s really nice. I’m just splicing some line and having a cup of coffee. I like it down here at night. It’s so peaceful.”

Brie understood Anna’s connection to her boat and her work. She’d certainly lived for her own work for enough years.

“How’s the investigation going?” Anna asked.

“It’s coming along.” Brie didn’t want to get into the details of Tim’s death with Anna because she knew John was waiting to head back to the ship.

“If you aren’t busy in the morning, why don’t you come out with me for a couple hours and haul some traps—have an authentic Maine experience? You can tell your friends about it back in Minneapolis,” she said.

“The Coast Guard is coming around noon. Would we be back in time?” Brie asked.

“Plenty of time. I’ll have you back by eleven o’clock. You’ll have to get up early, though, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve always been an early riser,” Brie said. “I’d love to come.”

“Great,” said Anna. “Then I’ll pick you up about 6:30.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Brie walked off the dock and back to where her shipmates were boarding the yawl boat.

They headed across the harbor toward the
Maine Wind
. The gale had finally blown itself out. Stars were beginning to show through the last remnants of the storm’s cloud deck, and overhead fast-moving ghosts sailed across the moon. Brie looked toward the
Maine Wind
. One more chapter had just been added to the schooner’s rich history. She thought about all the storms the fine old ship had weathered and felt a sudden affinity for her. Going back to the
Maine Wind
tonight felt like going home.

After all the passengers were unloaded, Scott and George got the equipment off the yawl boat, brought it down to the storeroom, and carried up four kerosene lanterns. John went below to his cabin with Glenn to get started on the radio repair. Rob, Alyssa, Will and Howard said they were turning in and headed below to their cabins. Brie went to change her muddy jeans, then headed for Tim’s cabin to look for a handwriting sample.

After helping George light and distribute the lanterns, Scott went below to see what the captain had planned for the watch. “I’ll take the first watch,” DuLac said. “You come on deck and relieve me at 0200, and George can take the watch from 0500 to 0700.”

“Sounds good. I’m turning in then, if it’s okay?” Scott said.

“Go ahead,” John nodded. “I’m heading up on deck in a couple minutes. Glenn’s the expert here—he doesn’t need my help making these repairs.”

“See you at 0200 then, Captain.” Scott climbed the companionway ladder and headed for his berth at the other end of the ship.

Brie snapped on the reading light in Tim’s cabin and began going through his belongings. She didn’t remember having seen a journal or notebook when she was in here the first time, but searched through everything anyway. They’d retrieved Tim’s wallet from his pocket after they brought him up, but it was of no help, the contents having been in the salt water long enough to dissolve any writing.

Her search of the cabin came up empty. She was about to leave when she thought about the picture of him and Madie. She opened the back of the frame and extracted the photo. Sure enough, there was handwriting on the back—an almost illegible scrawl that she finally deciphered. It read:
Tim and Madie: Camping and climbing weekend in Acadia National Park
. If this was Tim’s writing, Brie wasn’t surprised that he’d printed the suicide note. It had obviously been important to him to convey his motivation.

She pulled the note out of her pocket to compare the two writing samples. The note had been carefully printed and seemed to bear no relationship to the writing on the picture. She decided to ask both Will and Scott for samples of their handwriting since they had both been gone from the inn for awhile, and the exact time of Tim’s death was not known.

As she left Tim’s cabin, Will appeared carrying a basin of wash water. He headed up on deck to discard it, and when he came back down, she asked him to step into Tim’s cabin and give her a handwriting sample.

“What do you need that for? You said it was a suicide.” He tried to keep his anger at bay, but it had already infiltrated his voice.

“It’s just part of following procedure until we can obtain a sample of Tim’s handwriting and verify that it matches the suicide note. I’ll be asking Scott for one, too.”

“But what possible motive could I have for killing Tim?” Will pursued, as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

“None that I can think of offhand, so I guess you needn’t worry.” She was tired and his tone irritated her.

“And if I were going to kill him, do you think I’d leave a note in my own handwriting? Do I look stupid?”

“I don’t know, Will. Do you?” she asked, deciding that he actually bore a slight resemblance to a pit bull. She wondered if they were stupid.

Grudgingly, Will provided a sample of both his printing and his handwriting. Brie could see, even without comparing them, that they were distinctly different from the note, but she was glad she’d checked it out.

George had gone down to the galley to stoke up Old Faithful and make coffee for the watch. Brie stuck her head down the companionway. “George, have you seen Scott?” she asked.

“He turned in a little while ago. Do you want me to get him?”

“No. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.”

“You sure?”