Mortar and Murder (21 page)

“Yeah, but . . . Ian looks like he could take a robber apart with his bare hands. I mean, who would be stupid enough to try to rob
him
?”

And why would anyone bother? It wasn’t like a salvage store on the outer edge of the back-beyond would be taking in a ton of money. There were easier targets elsewhere, for someone who wanted a quick buck. A liquor store, a video game store, a convenience market with a teenage girl behind the counter . . . No one in their right minds would take on Ian Burns if they didn’t have to.

Derek shrugged, conceding the point. “He’s not stupid, though, Tink. If he’d used that baseball bat to kill someone, he wouldn’t put it back behind the counter. He’d get rid of it.”

“Where?”

“In the water, when he got rid of Agent Trent’s body? Or in a Dumpster somewhere in Boothbay Harbor? It’s not like anyone would be looking for it there.”

He was probably right about that, since no one would have realized that there was a connection between ICE agent Lori Trent and Ian and Angela Burns. Until now, that is.

“We’re gonna have to sic Wayne on him, aren’t we?”

Derek’s face was reluctant. “I guess we’ll have to. Mention the business card, at least.” He grimaced. “Man, I hate to tattle on people.”

“If he didn’t do anything wrong, he shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

“I know.” But he didn’t look happy. He hesitated for a moment before he added, reluctantly, “Maybe she came here yesterday to talk to Angie. After Arthur Mattson saw her in the afternoon. She knew Angie from when she was here in March. Maybe she thought Angie might know who the dead girl was.”

“Huh.” That was a scenario I hadn’t thought of. “Why would Ian kill her, though?”

“Maybe Agent Trent wanted to take her in for questioning.”

“Maybe.” That seemed far-fetched, though. I know people kill for a variety of stupid reasons, from pairs of sneakers to imaginary insults, but would Ian really resort to murder just because an ICE agent wanted to interview his wife?

“Do you have a better idea?” Derek inquired.

“I don’t know about better. But what if Agent Trent didn’t believe Ian and Angie when they said that Ian’s the father of the baby—I mean, how could he be, if they only met this winter?—and she was trying to deport Angie? Any idiot can see that Ian’s crazy about her. If Agent Trent threatened to send her back to the Ukraine, he might have snapped. And if the baseball bat was right there . . .”

Derek nodded. “That’s a possibility. It seems like quite the coincidence, though, Avery. That Agent Trent is killed on the same day that Wayne calls her to look into the body in the water, but she’s killed for a different reason.”

True.

“So maybe it’s all related. Agent Trent came up here to talk to Angie about the body, and she discovered that there was a connection between them. Maybe Angie wrote Irina’s name and address on that piece of paper, or maybe they were together the other day, when the girl fell in the water, and Angie didn’t report it. Maybe Agent Trent tried to arrest Angie, and then Ian snapped and whacked her with the baseball bat.”

“That would do it.”

We drove in silence for a minute before I told Derek to change direction.

“Why?” He did it, though, without waiting for me to explain.

“That kid from Barnham, the one who overheard someone talking about Russian women? He said it was on the ferry dock in Boothbay Harbor. We’re here, so why don’t we stop and see if there’s anyone there who remembers?”

Derek headed for the ferry dock, although he still felt he had to issue a warning. “You probably won’t find anyone, Avery. It’s a long time ago, and there are no guarantees that anyone who’s there now was there then. Or that they’ll remember.”

I realized that. “I’m hoping that there’s a ticket taker or something, someone who works there, who might be able to give us a description of the two men.”

“Maybe one of them was Ian,” Derek suggested, “and he was telling a friend about Angie.”

“That’s possible. You’d think Calvin would have been able to describe Ian, though. He’s almost seven feet tall.”

Derek nodded and cut the engine.

Down at the end of the dock, the ferry was waiting for passengers. The young blond conductor I’d met before was hanging out on the dock, manipulating the buttons on an iPhone. He squinted at me as I came closer, sort of like he thought he ought to know who I was, but he couldn’t quite place me. I smiled.

“Hi. We met earlier this week. On the ferry. I was going to Rowanberry Island.”

Those bright blue eyes cleared. “Yeah. Sure. I remember you. The van Duren house, right?”

I nodded. “This is my boyfriend, Derek.”

Derek and the young man shook hands. His name turned out to be Ned Schachenger. “You riding?” He nodded toward the ferry. “Going back to the island?”

I glanced at Derek. “We weren’t planning to.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I just had a question. Another question.”

“About that dead girl?” Ned said.

I hesitated. “Yes and no. I wondered if you’d ever heard anyone talking about Russian women on the ferry or on the ferry dock?”

“People talk about lots of stuff,” Ned said.

“This would have been sometime this winter. January, maybe. Two men.”

“How do you know that they were here? And talked about Russian women?”

“A guy named Calvin told me,” I said. “He’s a student at Barnham College. He said he’d overheard them.”

“Calvin Harris? Guy with big ears, big nose, big feet, who looks like some kind of bird?”

“That’s him.”

“I know Calvin. We went to high school together.”

“Here?” I looked around Boothbay Harbor, at the quaint houses, the narrow streets, the little marina with the boats.

Ned nodded. “Boothbay Harbor High School has kids from some of the islands, too. Calvin came in on the ferry every morning.”

I nodded. “Which island is Calvin from?”

“Rowanberry,” Ned said.

“That’s quite a coincidence.” Although it did explain what he was doing on the ferry dock. “Does he live in the village?”

“I imagine he does. I’ve never been to his house, though. We’re not tight. But most of the other houses are for the summer people. Closed off in the winter.”

I nodded.

“I never heard anyone talk about Russian women,” Ned added, “but I remember Calvin asking me about a couple of people once. It could have been January, but I think it was more recent. Everyone was wearing rain gear. It’s usually too cold for rain in January.”

No kidding. January had been bitterly cold. Calvin probably just had a bad memory; instead of not being able to describe the people because of winter parkas and scarves, it was because of raincoats and umbrellas. “Which two people?”

“One of ’em was Ian Burns. He owns a salvage business on the north side of town. You can’t mistake Mr. Burns; ain’t nobody else as tall.”

“We just came from Burns Salvage,” Derek said. “Looking for doorknobs for the house.”

“What about the other person?” I asked. “Was it someone Ian was talking to?”

Ned nodded. “Woman,” he said. “Hard to tell under the umbrella, but I think she had short, dark hair. Curly. She was pretty. And preggo.”

Definitely Angie. “What did Calvin want to know?”

Ned shrugged. “Just who they were.” The ferry tooted, and he had to raise his voice to continue. “I told him that the guy was Ian Burns, but that I’d never seen the woman before. He said thanks and got on the ferry. Just like I have to do.”

He turned away.

“Thanks for the help,” I called after him. He waved a hand in acknowledgment.

I turned to Derek. “What about you? Want to take a pleasure trip in the nice weather?”

“I think I’ll pass. Don’t want to get stuck on Rowanberry Island for the night.”

“The ferry runs a couple more times today, doesn’t it?”

Derek admitted that it did. “But not for hours.”

“I’m a little concerned about my kitten,” I said.

Derek’s eyebrows arched. “Your kitten?”

“You know, the little blue one that lives under the porch.”

“When did it become yours?”

Oh. Um . . . “I guess when I brought some of Jemmy and Inky’s food out for it.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek said, unimpressed. “Are you planning to take it back to Waterfield with you?”

“I don’t know about that. I can’t imagine Jemmy and Inky taking kindly to an interloper, can you?”

The idea had a certain appeal, though. It’d be nice to have a soft, purring kitten around the house. One that actually liked me and that would curl up in my lap and allow itself to be petted; not a full-grown cat set in its ways which couldn’t care less whether I was there or not. Not that this particular kitten seemed inclined to be friendly and let itself be petted, although that might change, given time.

“No,” Derek said, “I can’t. And if you’re not adopting it, you’re better off leaving it alone. If it gets dependent on handouts from you, it won’t be able to take care of itself when you leave.”

“But I can’t leave it there. That would be cruel. Maybe I can give it to someone else.
You
don’t have a cat.”

“I don’t want a cat,” Derek said. “I see enough of yours.”

“Maybe Kate would like a cat. Or maybe not. She cat-sat Jemmy and Inky just after Aunt Inga died and I was in New York getting things organized, and she said that people were canceling their reservations because of allergies. I guess a cat probably wouldn’t be a good thing in a bed-and-breakfast.”

Derek shook his head. “C’mon,” he said, resigned, “let’s just go. There’s probably somewhere on the island we can buy a can of cat food, don’t you think? Or at least a can of tuna?”

“There’s a little grocery store. I’m sure they’ll have something.” I skipped toward the ferry. Derek turned around to point his car keys at the truck and set the alarm, before he followed.

The little village on Rowanberry Island looked just like it had last time I was there. Deserted and desolate, like an outpost on the edge of nowhere. As the ferry chugged away, a sleek blue gray adult cat disappeared around the corner of the general store.

“Look,” I said to Derek, pointing, “it looks like my kitten.”

The only other person to disembark on Rowanberry Island was a middle-aged woman in a worn coat, with a scarf over her head—to protect her permed hair from the ocean breeze, I assumed—and half a dozen shopping bags clutched in her hands. “That’s Pepper,” she said, her voice hoarse. “She’s a Russian blue.”

“Is that a breed?”

The woman nodded. “She belongs to Gert Heyerdahl. You know, the writer. Usually he takes her south for the winter, but maybe she tucked herself away somewhere and he couldn’t find her when it was time to leave last fall.”

“I think she must have had kittens recently,” I volunteered. “At least there’s a kitten living under our porch that looks a lot like that. Maybe Mr. Heyerdahl left her with the caretaker for the winter.”

The man I’d met probably lived in the village. Maybe he had taken Pepper back to his house with him instead of leaving her at Mr. Heyerdahl’s house. If not, she was a long way from home.

“Where is your house?” The woman fastened hazel eyes on me.

“I’m sorry.” I introduced myself and Derek. “We live in Waterfield. But we’re renovating the old van Duren place on the other side of the island. You know, the twin to Gert Heyerdahl’s house.”

The woman nodded. “I’m Glenda Harris. I live there.” She indicated the house that had had the Rooms for Rent sign in the window. It was gone now.

“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, shaking her hand. A stray thought scurried through my brain, but I wasn’t able to hold on to it. “Have you always lived on Rowanberry Island?”

Glenda nodded. “I was born here. I’ll probably die here.” She said it calmly, looking around at the peeling paint and the general desolation of the small village. “Every year, people leave, move to the mainland, where things are easier and more convenient. But this is my place. Where would I go?”

“How long has your family lived here?” Derek wanted to know.

Glenda turned to him. “I’m descended from one of the van Duren girls. Daisy. She lived in Sunrise two hundred and twenty years ago.”

“Sunrise?”

“That’s the name of your house. The houses were named Sunrise and Sunset.”

“Because they’re on opposite sides of the island?” Our house was facing east, toward the ocean and the sunrise, while Gert Heyerdahl’s was facing west.

“That, plus Daisy’s husband was a patriot. Clara’s husband—the two of them lived in Sunset, Mr. Heyerdahl’s house—was a loyalist.”

“Really?” I spared a thought for the folder from the Waterfield Historic Society we had left inside the truck in the parking lot in Boothbay Harbor. I had looked it over at lunch while waiting for the food we had ordered to arrive, but I hadn’t had time for any in-depth examination. And while Irina had told me that the two van Duren girls hadn’t gotten along, and that was why their father had built them houses on opposite sides of the island, I hadn’t known about the patriot versus loyalist angle. In 1783, just after the Revolution ended, that must have been a pretty big deal. No wonder they didn’t get along.