Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) (5 page)

And
Mary….
How did she
fit in? Her presence was suspicious so soon after the box’s arrival. Could
Everett have sent her?

“Do you have a
stud finder I can borrow?” she asked. These were not the words I expected.

I resisted the
urge to make any jokes about her finding studs. Mary has no sense of humor and
I didn’t really want to know what she was doing. At least, I didn’t want to
know from her. I would ask Bryson later. Unlike Everett and Mary, he wasn’t
witheringly unimaginative. If he didn’t know the truth he would make up an
entertaining lie.

“No, but Ben might.
He’s been hanging shelves and pictures.” Ben’s office is functional, full of
filing cabinets and, except for his chair, lacking in comfortable furniture. He
had decided to add some shelves and hang some of his awards. I like my library
more, though I will grant that Ben’s office, devoid of cushions and pets, is
probably better at keeping a body focused on their work.

Mary shook her
head.

“He’s gone to
the mainland.
Took off going wicked fast earlier this
morning.”

Probably
with the chest and high hopes of fame and fortune.
Well, that suited me fine. The damned
box gave me the willies.

“I have a
small tool chest, but it’s just hammers and screwdrivers, I think. Do you want
to look through it?” I had to make some gesture of helpfulness. Only four of us
live on the island. It is important to be on good terms.

“No. I’ll call
Everett. Damn,” she muttered. “I wonder why Ben left. He was here earlier,
wasn’t he? Did he say anything about leaving?”

So, she had
been watching the house. She couldn’t need a stud finder that badly, could she?

“Yes. He’s got
me looking through old family letters. He’s trying to find some information on
one of the
Wendovers
for a book he’s doing and he is
all riled up about it.”

“Which
one of your ancestors?”
Mary asked, trying to be casual. Mary doesn’t read much and has no interest in
genealogy.

“The
one who married Abercrombie’s daughter.
The ship captain from away.”

“Ah.” She
nodded. Apparently my failure to use the word pirate had reassured her. Mary is
one of those who doesn’t like the ugly old facts disturbed by research. “Quite
a storm we had last night.”

“Yes. I wasn’t
expecting it.”

“Have you been
down to the beach today?” she asked abruptly.

I stared at
her, trying to decide if this was her version of small talk or if Mary was
actually trying to be sly.

“Is there any
good driftwood?” I answered without answering. “I wouldn’t mind a piece for a
flower arrangement I have in mind.”

“I don’t
know.” She paused. “I haven’t gone down to the beach. I’m too busy. Maybe Ben
went down.”

This new
thought made her frown.

“Oh. Well, I
may walk down later and have a look around.” I turned back to my tidy row of
sunflowers and began snipping. “See you,” I said.

“Bye.” I heard
her walk away.

“Well, that
was strange,” I muttered to Kelvin. “Do you think she knows something about the
chest?”

Kelvin meowed.

“I think so
too. Maybe she just saw Ben rushing off with it and got curious enough to come
for a visit.”

But I
suspected it was more than that. I bet she had heard rumors of treasure through
the years and it had probably excited her interest. Gold had that effect on
many people. However, there was nothing I could do about what she thought so I
shook my head and went back to cutting flowers.

Eventually I
returned to my boxes of paper and found many interesting things, but nothing
from Nicholas Wendover and no captain’s logs entitled
The Diary of
Halfbeard
the Pirate.

Night hadn’t reached the west side of the island when Barney began to
pace and whine, but the increasing shadows in the east made me nervous. My
limbic brain had become sensitized to certain stimuli and it could not ignore
the circumstances under which the box had arrived. It was off island with Ben,
who still hadn’t returned or I would have seen lights at his house, so I should
have felt safe. But I didn’t. The coming storm was hostile.

Finally I drew the curtains against the sunset and resisted the urge
to go downstairs and check yet again that both outside doors as well as the one
to the basement and the secret stair were locked. They were. I had already
checked.
Twice.

I decided on a bath though tremendous effort is needed to coax the
aged taps into opening and releasing the dangerously hot water created by the
immersion heater mounted in an old brass tank. I would have liked it better if
the cistern screamed like a tea kettle when it was ready instead of relying on
a timer which had rust around the edges, but the damn thing worked fine and
they hadn’t made a water heater large enough to supply water for the giant old
bathtub. So, I took life in hand once again and I turned on the heater and went
to make hot chocolate.

After I had boiled myself a nice shade of lobster, I gathered up
Barney and Kelvin and retired upstairs where I lit a fire in the bedroom grate.
It wasn’t cold, but a fire is friendly and there is comfort in light that won’t
go out if a line or transformer goes down.

I was not surprised when I heard the storm begin its angry symphony.
The moaning of the wind could be heard above the crackling in the grate and the
sound cut right through the calm well-being provided by the hot bath and cocoa.

I love the house and have always felt welcome and safe here. Usually
it doesn’t seem empty because I had never lived here with anyone else so don’t
know any differently. But something about that night made the rooms fill up
with the awareness that my family was dead and I was entirely alone and
vulnerable.

Kelvin mewed and smacked my leg with his claws. The tiny pain broke my
bleak reverie and I again felt fine. The room was just a room. The fireplace
would be warm and inviting as soon as I laid some kindling in the hearth.

Barney got in his bed and huddled unhappily until I gave in and called
him up on the mattress. Kelvin got up on my pillow and stared at the bedroom
door while I finished laying the fire.

My knees were stiff as I got to my feet and crossed the room to the
window where the rain tapped with impatient fingers. The curtains were heavy
and resisted drawing back as if they didn’t want me looking out at the night. I
insisted and eventually stared out of the narrow opening in the fabric and saw
that the wind was rearranging my yard, decorating it with loose leaves and
twigs and pulling the seed heads off dying shrubs. Almost the instant I drew
the curtain aside, the wind began attacking the glass from different directions
as though trying to find a way inside and when thwarted, punishing me by
cutting off my line of sight with blown leaves and debris. I told myself that
this was like watching a horror movie with really high production values. The
thought didn’t make me feel any better.

The house shivered, as though it were aware of outside danger and
quaking on its foundations.

Locals think that I control the weather, but I don’t.

I let the curtain fall shut and turned back to my four-legged friends.

“Let’s read,” I said to Kelvin, who didn’t bother to look away from
the door though Barney wagged his tail hopefully. He likes when I talk to him.

I knew what Kelvin wanted. He likes to roam the house at night, but
this was one of the times when I wanted my door closed and locked against the
dark and storm.

In our hearts
we knew tempest impended and the crew grew gloomy in
mynd
.
Every
nyght
when evening came and the storm grew even
darker, a strange cloud of mist would form about the ship. It affrighted me and
the men and we always made to outrun it. We kept watch at all
tymes
, burning the oil for the lamps most recklessly
because we feared the dark.

—from the unbound journal of
Halfbeard

Ben was just back from the mainland at first light and excited enough
to call. The joy was because his friend was doing tests to confirm that the
box, the bones, and the gold were all what they thought they were.

I tried for an encouraging tone but it was hard when I had no coffee,
and I was aware that in my distraction over the box I had forgotten to call and
add it to the grocery order that was being delivered. Ben finally admitted that
he hadn’t slept and could use a nap, so we wrapped things up and I went to make
some tea.

Hearing the ferry only a short time later and being recalled to the
present reality of an empty larder, I grabbed my purse and hurried for the
dock. I wasn’t really pulled together, but we don’t have a lot of fashion
plates in the islands and all the basic grooming was covered.

Barney was following closely as he always does, so I detoured by Ben’s,
hoping he wasn’t asleep already.

I climbed up Ben’s path and stuck my head in the open door and called
to him, asking if Barney could stay while I made a coffee run.

A bleary-eyed Ben agreed but then asked, “Isn’t that the ferry now?”

“Yes, and I forgot to add coffee to my order. I’ve got to catch a ride
now. If you are sure Barney won’t keep you up.”

“Oh well, in an emergency I can make do, right, dog? Anyway, he looks
like he needs a nap.” He smiled at Barney who thumped his tail.

“Thanks!”

Barney, who is used to staying with Ben, didn’t follow me to the
docks.

I groped for my sunglasses. The morning sky was low and a bit hard on
the eyes. The directionless haze glared painfully as the sun slowly gnawed its
way through the obstinate clouds. I thought it looked like a migraine headache.

I was also repelled by the strange-looking seaweed that was draped
along the path. The storm had to have brought it ashore, but how hard did a wind
have to blow to force rotting vegetation up a stony path?

“Captain Sibley,” I said, managing a smile for him though I knew none
would be returned. “Just leave the parcels on the dock. We’ll get them later. I
need a ride into Goose Haven, if you’ll have me.”

“
Ayuh
?
Come aboard
then.”

Our conversations always scintillated.

I had a few bad moments on the ride to Goose Haven and admit that I
wouldn’t have been surprised if a kraken had risen up from the deep and
attacked us, but of course nothing happened. My subconscious was certain though
that some tide had shifted.
And not for the better.
For the first time since I had come to the islands I was afraid, not just
cautious, of the ocean. Samuel Johnston came to mind. It was his opinion that
being on a ship was like being in jail only with the added hazard of drowning.

The theme of my thoughts was insistently recurrent. Certainly these
were not waters I wanted to go swimming in, so I stayed back from the rail and
hummed Bach under my breath.

The humming helped, but the unease never quite left me and it was a
relief to get land under my legs again. I headed for Mike’s chowder house with
enthusiasm. I was looking for Bryson and knew that since it was Tuesday he was
likely there for lunch. They get their blueberry pies on Monday afternoon and
it is better after it has had a chance to
set
overnight.

I was also in luck because Mike had just taken his various barbecued
sea bugs off the menu and the seafood and charcoal smog that surrounded the
chowder house in August had abated. You didn’t have to like shellfish to live
here, but to avoid eating it was seen as shirking one’s civic duty. Now all I
had to avoid was the breakfast special of fishcakes and hot donuts. If worse
came to worst, there was always cabbage soup, the most exotic thing on the menu
year round and sometimes the only thing without fish.

Tuesday isn’t a popular day for lunching out so the chowder house
wasn’t busy. In fact, it was about as lively as a funeral parlor, I thought,
and then almost tripped over my own feet when I saw who was dining there. Other
than Bryson the only other customer was Jonas
Traynor
who runs a mortuary on the mainland. He looks very New England—lean, standing
straight as a church steeple and pointing the way to heaven. There is another
undertaker in the islands but the Catholics prefer to use Jonas. That he was on
Great Goose instead of in his parlor likely meant that someone of that faith had
died.

I cast my mind back to the latest gossip and recalled that old Mrs.
Tudor had been sick with pneumonia. I knew her slightly, mostly because of her
volunteer work at the museum and intense menthol smell that always followed her.
No one else was ill and I had heard nothing of any accidents, so it probably
was Elmira Tudor who had departed this vale of Vicks
VapoRub
.