Clammed Up (16 page)

I still had a lot of time to kill before I went out to Morrow Island with Binder in the afternoon, so I borrowed my mom’s car and headed to Quentin Tupper’s house on Westclaw Point. Bob Ditzy had rung my cell phone two more times, but hadn’t left a second message, which I figured was all to the good.

Twenty minutes later, almost at the end of the point, I turned down Tupper’s driveway, which was really just a double track. I was amused to see what I took to be his car parked out back—a mint-condition, antique wooden-sided estate wagon. I imagined Quentin driving up Route 95 from New York City in it. Quite a sight.

I walked around the property to the ocean side and climbed the steps to his deck, calling “hello,” loudly. I imagined unexpected visitors, or even strange cars, were rare that far down the point. The house was massive, a three-story wall of dark gray granite, with huge windows all along the front looking out to the wild North Atlantic.

Windows?
Wasn’t that how Sonny said Tupper made his fortune? I leaned on the deck rail. A long dock ran from the property out to a sleek sailboat moored in deep water. Forty-footer, I guessed. A single-hand, high-tech, carbon-fiber racing boat. Custom-made, with all the bells and whistles.

Despite the luxurious look of the house, the deck was sparsely furnished with a standard-issue picnic table and two worn Adirondack chairs. At the end of the deck next to the railing was a telescope, trained right on Morrow Island. I couldn’t resist. I looked into it.

Across the water, I saw our little beach surrounded by great slabs of rust-colored rock. Beyond the rock, the hill rose up, covered on the backside of the island with a dense growth of scrub oak and pine. Rising above all that, I could see the slate roof, chimneys, and fourth floor dormers of Windsholme.

I turned the telescope to look at the inlet just down the coast from Tupper’s property where the tide had deposited all the inflatable toys Livvie and I had lost when we were little. If Ray Wilson went to the island at low tide and left a boat on the beach to be washed out, that was where it would have turned up. But I didn’t see a boat or anything else.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” That man was always sneaking up on me.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I said.

“I’ve seen humpback whales breach right out there between your property and mine. Magnificent creatures.”

“I’ve seen them, too.”
From our island.
“Your house is beautiful . . . to go with the beautiful setting.”

“Thanks. I love it here.”

“Did you design the windows?”

“What?”

“My brother-in-law told me that you invented some kind of window.”

Quentin threw his head back and laughed. “Is that what they’re saying around town? Not windows,
Windows . . . with a capital W
.”

Oh my God, he invented Windows? No, of course he didn’t.

Quentin motioned toward the two Adirondack chairs on the deck and we sat down. “I was a classics major. The kinds of language skills classics majors develop are perfect for computer programming. I dabbled in that, too and while I was still at college I developed a tiny piece of code that makes almost every computer program you use run minutely faster. Whenever someone buys a certain operating system or application that runs on it, I get a few fractions of a penny.”

My God.
I tried to figure out how much money that would be. Hundreds of millions was the best I could come up with. “Are you still a computer programmer?”

“Nope. Never really was. Just hit it lucky with a few lines of code.”

“So what do you do now?”

He sat in the Adirondack chair, looking comfortable and at home with himself. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? No one does nothing.” My work in venture capital had given me a pretty clear idea of what the very rich do. They sit on the boards of nonprofits, they take up expensive hobbies, they dabble in politics. Sometimes they even invest in small companies where they drive the management crazy with suggestions because having once made a lot of money doing one thing, they think they know everything about everything. I was overly familiar with that kind of rich person. But someone who did nothing? That was outside my experience. Yet I remembered, I’d found not a single trace of Quentin Tupper on the Web.

“It’s a challenge to do nothing, believe me. I’ve had to cultivate it carefully. All around are entanglements. Say one word at a meeting of your condo board and the next thing you know, you’re on a committee—or worse yet, running the thing. Attend a charity event or give a little money to your alma mater, and you end up calling all your friends to put the squeeze on them. It is very, very difficult to do nothing, but through hard work and attention to detail, I’ve accomplished it.”

“You sail.” I pointed to the beautiful boat moored at his dock.

“I do. It’s part of my overall do-nothing plan. I walk out to the end of my dock and sail away. I never plan ahead. I don’t race. I never give parties on my boat. I buy whatever supplies I need at the next port. ”

Very soon, if the clambake failed, I’d probably be doing nothing myself, though that had never been part of any plan. Doing nothing without Quentin’s resources didn’t seem like much fun at all.

“You arrived in Busman’s Harbor the morning of Ray Wilson’s murder,” I said. “The paper you gave me had a front section and a sports section from the early Sunday edition, as well as the parts of the paper only New York metro readers get. For you to be sitting at Gus’s by 7:00
AM
on Sunday when we first met, you must have left New York in the wee hours. That seems like an odd thing for a man who has no appointments or obligations.”

“I answer to no one. I come and go as I please.”

He was starting to annoy me again. “Really, Quentin. Why did you give me that paper?”

Quentin smiled, trying to diffuse my irritation. “My family has owned this land for eight generations. Did you know that? It was never any good for farming. There was almost nothing on it before I built this house, just a little fishing shack my ancestors used to enforce their traditional claim to lobstering in these waters. But this isn’t the first home I’ve built. I had a gorgeous place in the Hamptons. Peaceful, convenient to New York. But then some jerk movie producer bought the place across the bay from me and put in a helipad. It was like living in Fallujah. Helicopters coming and going at all hours.”

I squinted at him, wondering
what in the world does this have to do with me?

He continued. “Tony Poitras and Ray Wilson have been looking at property in Maine for a while. Your island isn’t the first one they scouted. But they have very specific requirements. They need town water and power like you have. They need to be out of cell range for all carriers and likely to remain so. They need a flat spot for a helipad and they need a property with a single owner. They don’t share their islands with others. When you start applying the criteria, the number of target properties gets pretty small. And one of them is right across the water from me. Yours.”

I knew Ray and Tony had considered buying our island. Ray had approached Etienne and Sonny. But now I understood better why they were interested in Morrow specifically. “So you thought you’d warn me?”

“When I saw that article in the real estate section of the
Times
, and the announcement saying Tony Poitras’s wedding was on Morrow Island, I figured it wasn’t a coincidence. I got in my car that night and drove to Busman’s Harbor. When I got to Gus’s to have breakfast, I heard about Wilson’s murder. I honestly didn’t know who you were when I met you. But when I found out, I wanted to tip you off about what Tony and Ray were really looking for on your island.” He’d been speaking so rapidly he ran out of breath. He exhaled, blowing a rush of air out through his lips. “That’s it. That’s all. I swear. Just trying to help a neighbor out.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“I was headed back to New York. I didn’t want to leave a message with your brother-in-law. I thought it was better to give you the facts I had in hand rather than my speculation.”

There wasn’t much more to say. I thanked him for his explanation as he walked me to my car. When I started the engine, he put his head in my window. “Stay strong, buddy. Stay strong. Fight the bank. Solve the murder. A fancy resort with a helipad is the last thing I need across from my land.”

I pulled out of his driveway, trying to remember. Had I said anything about the bank?

When I got back to town, I walked to Gus’s. If he wasn’t too busy, I could fit in a quick lunch before I went out to the island with Binder and his people. I glanced at my cell phone as I walked. No new calls from Bob the Banker. A relief.

At Gus’s, I looked for Chris. I longed to see him. So much had happened since we’d talked outside the police station. But he wasn’t there, even though it was Thursday, one of our days. It had been a rough twenty-four hours for me—the fight with Michaela, the fight with Sonny, the calls from the bank. My head was spinning after my conversations with Quentin and Sarah. I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. I really needed to talk to someone. To talk to Chris.

I wandered over to the counter and sat down. The place was medium crowded. And to their credit, nobody asked me anything about the murder or fire. I silently blessed the Mainers’ credo of “mind your own damn business.”

“You’re lookin’ a might droopy,” Gus said when he came to take my order.

“Oh, Gus.” Tears sprang to my eyes. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I wanted to see Chris. Needed to talk to him. I was overwhelmed by everything I was dealing with. I was alone. One tear escaped from the corner of my eye and rolled down my cheek before I blinked it away.

“There, there. There’s no crying at Gus’s place.”

That seemed like a new rule, and like all Gus’s rules, it seemed arbitrary and unenforceable, but somehow Gus got everyone to tow the line. “What’s troubling you?”

What was troubling me? Was he kidding? I took a quick spin through my life looking for any single area that was “fine,” and came up empty.

When Gus realized I wasn’t going to answer, he continued. “Murder? Arson? Bankruptcy? Is that all?
Nil carborundum illegitimi,
Julia. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Your family business is too important to this town.”

Murder. Arson. Bankruptcy.
Plus, I kissed the wrong boy when I was drunk.
I started to tear up again. I stared at the menu scrawled on the blackboard. I’d memorized it when I was six and Gus hadn’t added or subtracted an item since.

He turned away with a frustrated sigh. Before I knew it, he’d put a double-sized piece of his wife’s three-berry pie and a cup of coffee in front of me. “Pie solves most things.”

He went off to attend to other customers while I drowned my sorrows in the flakey, buttery crust. I closed my eyes and rolled the tangy blue, black, and raspberry filling across my tongue, hoping to hit every taste bud. Pie. Gus might have something there. I definitely felt a little better.

I hadn’t allowed myself think about the six million dollars Ray Wilson had mentioned to Etienne. I took just a moment to fantasize about it and about my life with no debt, no family responsibilities, no obligations. I felt a wonderful sense of freedom, like I was floating.

My cell phone chirped. Sonny.
Great.
I answered.

“You on your way, Your Highness? We’re all waiting for you down at the dock.”

I ran over the hill and down the other side toward the town dock. Was this the new me? A person perpetually late to important appointments?

On the stern of the harbormaster’s boat stood three state cops I didn’t recognize, along with Detective Flynn and Lieutenant Binder, who was staring with annoyance at his watch. And Sonny, who I hadn’t seen since the tense dinner following our fight last night. And Jamie, who I hadn’t seen since he kissed me at 1:00 that morning.

I scrambled aboard. All the ship required was Robert Forman Ditzy and it would have in its tiny stern every man on the planet I did not wish to see at that moment. Binder nodded to the harbormaster and we were off.

The Boston Whaler was tied up at our dock, which meant Etienne and Gabrielle were on the island. I hoped Binder had the courtesy to let them know we were coming. I knew how skittish having strangers on the island made Gabrielle, and all of us showing up without notice was sure to increase her nervousness. As soon as we tied up, Etienne came bounding out of their house. I could tell by his look of surprise that Binder hadn’t told him about this last search. Gabrielle followed Etienne closely, as if using him as a shield.

Binder assigned each of the three state cops to search a third of the island. He asked Sonny, Jamie, and Etienne pair up with one of the officers. Etienne hemmed and hawed like he didn’t want to accept his assignment. I thought he might be uneasy about leaving Gabrielle alone while there were cops looking under every rock on the island. I understood. Even though I liked Binder and had never found him to be anything but professional and fair, I too, felt the violation. Finally, reluctantly, Etienne agreed to go. He kissed Gabrielle on her forehead and urged her toward the house. Binder gave a nod to Flynn who silently joined Etienne’s party.

Binder turned to me and said, “I’d like you to come with me.” Together we walked up the great lawn toward Windsholme. At the top of the hill, he veered off and took the path through the woods to the playhouse. He pushed open its Dutch door and we stepped inside.

It was as neat as it had been the last time I was there. We walked through to the bedroom where the blanket was still neatly folded on the mattress on the bottom bunk. Chris’s initials, carved into the board that supported the top bunk, screamed at me as though they were etched in neon. But Binder didn’t comment on them.

We returned to the front room. “Nice place to spend your childhood,” Binder said in a neutral tone.

“If you mean the island, yes it was. If you mean, specifically, this playhouse, I wouldn’t know. During my childhood, we spent the summer in the house where Etienne and Gabrielle live now, and they spent their summers here. With their son.” Even as I said it, I suspected Binder already knew.

“Did the playhouse look like this the last time you saw it?”

“If you mean cleaned up, yes, it did. On the day we had the first—the only—clambake of the season, I came over here to look around. It looked exactly as it does now.”

“Which surprised you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“It did. When I went off to college, my parents decided to stay on the mainland during the summer. My sister was on the swim team at the Y.” Funny, I’d almost forgotten that. “And between practices and meets it just wasn’t practical to live on the island anymore. So Etienne, Gabrielle and Jean-Jacques moved into the house by the dock, and the playhouse was abandoned. The last time I came here, before this summer, it was in really rough shape.”

“What did you think when you saw it all fixed up?”

“I assumed Sonny, Chris, and Etienne fixed it up when they were out here this spring getting ready to open the clambake. My niece and her little friend were with the men during school vacation. I assumed the guys had fixed this place up for them.”

“But that’s not what happened?”

“I guess not. My niece and her friend said they didn’t play here.” No point in mentioning the boy who was on the island this spring was Ray Wilson’s son.

“Who do you think cleaned it up?”

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t. But the whole conversation had caused a knot in my stomach. What had happened there? Was a stranger living on my island? That was the first time it had occurred to me. A murdering stranger actually
living
on my island.

“C’mon,” Binder said. “I want to go through the big house.”

When we reached Windsholme, he took a moment to inspect the work we’d done demolishing the side porch then we climbed the front steps and opened the doors. He held the door open and I went through it, grateful I’d taken my desensitizing walk the day before. He led me to the dining room, inspecting the fire damage, and then moved through the butler’s pantry. On the balcony of the two-story kitchen, he gave a low whistle. “This place is amazing.”

“I guess so.” For most of my life, I’d seen this kitchen as something impractical and unusable, with a huge, wood-burning stove and a pump in the soapstone sink for drawing water. In the corner was an ancient propane-powered refrigerator, long disconnected, from back in the days before the island had electricity.

We continued through each room on the main floor. Everything was as it had been the day before. In the great hall, Binder paused. I was sure he was remembering, as I was, Ray Wilson’s body hanging from the banister.

On the floor that housed the bedrooms, Binder opened every door. He was relaxed and chatty, asking me questions about my ancestors, most of which I couldn’t answer.

“Did you ever find the boat?” I asked.

“What boat?”

“The one Ray used to get here.”

“No,” Binder admitted. His hand felt along the wallpaper in the master bedroom where it had been discolored by the smoke.

“So you think Ray came out with his killer, who took the boat when he left?”

Binder grunted, noncommittal.

“What about the camp trunk?”

He stopped. “What trunk?”

It seemed like an honest question. Maybe the cops didn’t know about the trunk.

“Tony told me Ray Wilson had a big camp trunk in his car when he left New York, and I wondered if you found it. I know it wasn’t in his room at the Lighthouse Inn.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

Binder grimaced. “Very funny. But thanks, I hadn’t heard about this trunk.”

We climbed to the top floor. Windsholme never really got hot. Its thick stone walls and the ocean air created a state of permanent cool, but on the fourth floor the air was stuffier than I remembered even from the day before. Binder started at the end of the hallway closest to the porch fire, methodically opening each door. He’d stand for a moment in the doorway, looking thoughtful, but he didn’t enter the rooms.

“Did you find the windbreaker?”

He was losing his patience. “What windbreaker?”

“After Ray puked on himself in Chris’s cab he put his jacket on to cover the mess. He wore it when he went into the Lighthouse that night. But when I saw him here the next day, he didn’t have it on. Just a pink polo shirt.”

I thought for a moment the lieutenant would deny knowing about the windbreaker, too. But he said, “No. We haven’t found Wilson’s jacket.”

We were at the door of the room across from the landing. Binder turned the knob and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge, just like the day before.

“It’s so damp here,” I apologized. “Things are always sticking.”

“Why do you keep all the doors closed, anyway?”

“In case birds get in. Confines all the damage to one room.”

He grunted, put his shoulder to the door, and shoved hard. It made a loud creaking sound and bowed in the middle, but didn’t open. Then he put a foot on the door and leaned in. I thought about reminding him it was an antique, but he’d seen the state of the rest of the place, so I kept quiet. Besides, it was in my best interest that he see everything he wanted. I was just hoping for those magic words
You can open the clambake tomorrow.

He knelt down and stared at something by the keyhole. “I think this is locked.”

Locked?
As long as I could remember, nothing in the interior of Windsholme had been locked.

There was simply nothing to take. “Was it locked when you searched here after Wilson’s body was found?”

“No,” Binder answered. “Are there keys?”

“Butler’s pantry,” I answered, but he was busy jimmying the door with a long, slim tool. We heard an old lock grind, and the door swung open.

Inside the little room, a mattress was on an iron bedstead. The bed was made with white sheets and covered in an old wool blanket. And on the bed was an entire man’s wardrobe—T-shirts, cargo pants, boxers, and socks—folded with military precision.

I started to shake and gasp for air. Binder reached for his radio and called his officers to come.