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  TIME OF DEATH

  Binder removed his sports jacket and draped it across the back of his chair before he sat down. The storm outside had upped the humidity in the room. “In answer to your question, Mr. MacGillivray came in to provide Will Orsolini with an alibi. He says he saw Mr. Orsolini on the other side of Herrickson’s Point at the relevant time.”

  That raised an interesting question. “What is the relevant time?”

  “Between 11:05 AM and 11:34 AM,” Flynn answered.

  “That’s precise.”

  “You gave us the 11:05 time,” Binder reminded me.

  “I was keeping track carefully that morning. I didn’t want to miss the Jacquie II. How did you get the later time?”

  “The call saying there was a body at Herrickson House came into 911 at 11:17 AM. Your friend Officer Dawes was first on the scene at 11:34 AM. Frick was dead when Officer Dawes found him.”

  “Who called 911?”

  “Anonymous. From an extension inside the house.”

  Inside the house? That was creepy. “A man or a woman?” I asked.

  “Man.”

  The hair on my arms stood up. “Do you think he was the killer? Because if he was, and he murdered Frick and called 911 twelve minutes after I left, that probably means—” I shuddered.

  “He was already in the house when you were there . . .

  Books by Barbara Ross

  CLAMMED UP

  BOILED OVER

  MUSSELED OUT

  FOGGED INN

  ICED UNDER

  STOWED AWAY

  STEAMED OPEN

  EGG NOG MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)

  YULE LOG MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Lee Hollis)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  STEAMED OPEN

  Barbara Ross

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  TIME OF DEATH

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  RECIPES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1794-8

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1794-5

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1794-8

  This book is dedicated to my Wicked Cozy Authors: Jessie Crockett (Jessica Ellicott), Sherry Harris, Julie Hennrikus (Julia Henry), Edith Maxwell (Maddie Day), and Liz Mugavero (Cate Conte). You’ve been with me on every step of this adventure and I couldn’t have done it without your laughter, love, and support.

  CHAPTER 1

  I glanced at my phone to catch the time. If our tour boat, the Jacquie II, didn’t leave the town pier soon, we’d never be back in time to take the lunch customers to Morrow Island for our authentic Maine clambake.

  Under normal circumstances, we never took the boat out before the first group of the day. But today we were fulfilling a mission we couldn’t refuse. Three weeks earlier, immediately before Heloise (Lou) Herrickson had passed away at the age of a hundred and one, she’d given her housekeeper an exacting set of instructions written in her spidery cursive hand. One of them had been for her ashes to be consigned to the sea from the Jacquie II, because it was the only tour boat in the harbor large enough to hold all her friends.

  And friends she had. As I searched through the colorful crowd (no one wearing black, as she’d instructed), I was astonished by how many of Busman’s Harbor’s citizens had taken a morning during August, the busiest month of the year, to say good-bye to Lou. We had on board, literally, a butcher, a baker, and three candlestick makers. (Every resort town has at least one candle shop.) Plus, hairdressers, manicurists, handymen, gardeners, artists, and enough wait staff, bartenders, and musicians to throw a ball. There were more than a hundred people.

  My family was well represented by my mom, my sister, her husband, and me. My boyfriend Chris was there, too. It was a rare opportunity for us to be together during daylight hours in peak tourist season. On the coast of Maine, we had four short months to make our money and that meant Chris and I spent fifteen hours a day on the job, or in his case, jobs. I leaned back against him, my small body fitting perfectly against his rangy, muscular one. He put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. He wasn’t much for public displays of affection, so I treasured his reassurance. I was happy to be outside on a beautiful summer day, which was exactly what Lou would have wanted.

  As I looked around the boat, I knew almost everyone. There were a few people I didn’t—a couple in matching sweatshirts emblazoned with the silhouette of the Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse, and a woman in her seventies with leathery skin that bespoke years of tanning—but they were rare exceptions.

  Everyone who should have been on the boat was there, happily chatting as we waited at the Busman’s Harbor town pier. Everyone except Lou’s grandnephew and heir. As the big engine of the Jacquie II idled, passengers looked over toward the dock, waiting, waiting.

  There was more than a little curiosity about Bartholomew Frick around town. Lou’s home on Herrickson Point was a local landmark, a huge shingle-style pile overlooking a beach and her privately owned lighthouse. The land and buildings had been in Lou’s late husband’s family for generations. Everyone wanted to meet the man who was going to inherit.

  Through the back window of the pilothouse, Captain George mouthed, “What’s up?” I shrugged, the universal symbol for “dunno,” then pointed to an imaginary watch on my wrist and held up five fingers. We’d wait five more minutes for Bartholomew Frick and then leave whether he was on board or not. Lou had been a wonderful, generous woman. How could her only heir be late for her final journey?

  From the pier came the sound of a powerful motor and the sight of tourists scattering for cover. A red convertible Porsche squealed to a stop in front of the Jacquie II. A man in his mid-forties jumped out. He was medium-height, had a thick head of brown hair and wore khakis, a white tailored shirt, a blue blazer, no tie and no socks. I took all this i
n as he ran toward the boat.

  I made my way through the crowd muttering “excuse me, excuse me,” to the mourners as I passed. The man and I arrived at top of the gangway at the same moment.

  “Mr. Frick? I’m sorry. You can’t park there.” He kept his head down so he could pretend not to see me and tried to dodge around me. I stepped into his path.

  From behind me, Chris whispered, “You need help?”

  I was grateful for the offer. “No, thanks. I’ve got this.

  “Mr. Frick, I’m Julia Snowden. I own this boat.” (A slight inaccuracy. My mother did, but I was in charge of this particular journey.) “You can’t park on the town pier. The space you’re in is for loading and unloading passengers only.” He’d passed about a dozen signs telling him so as he’d made his way from Main Street to the pier.

  He pulled his head up and looked me in the face for the first time. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  I repeated myself, slowly and clearly.

  “Where am I to put my car?” he demanded. “Every parking space in town is taken.”

  Ah, tourist season. The locals on the Jacquie II had known parking would be a problem. Many had walked, or arrived in plenty of time to find a space. Others had even (shudder) parked in one of the paid lots, regarded as the ultimate sacrifice. They’d done it because they loved Lou Herrickson.

  I could have directed her grandnephew to one of those paid lots, but the nearest one was blocks away and there was no guarantee it would have any spots left open. So instead, I said, “You can park in my mother’s driveway. It’s just up the street. Forty-three Main.”

  He grunted, then hesitated. I thought he might argue and at that point I would have let him leave the car on the pier where it would certainly be towed. Finally, he acquiesced. “Wait for me.”

  I told him we’d wait five minutes.

  I turned and saw Chris. He’d taken a few steps back and stood with arms crossed over his chest, in his bouncer pose, making sure everything was okay. I smiled at him and then went to tell Captain George the new plan. He fussed and fumed about being late to pick up the first shift of clambake guests who would be waiting when we got back. “You can do it,” I encouraged him. “For Lou.”

  “For Lou,” he repeated. I knew there were few people, living or dead, for whom he would have agreed.

  To his credit, Frick did keep a move on. He came pelting up the gangway with seconds to spare. As he jumped onto the boat, Captain George called to the kids who worked the lines. They let us loose and we powered away from the pier.

  * * *

  We pulled back to the pier an hour and fifteen minutes later. As Captain George had predicted, there was already a long line of smiling, excited tourists with tickets for the luncheon seating at the Snowden Family Clambake. The mourners filed off the Jacquie II quickly. It had been a rare social occasion for them, one full of laughter and a few tears as friends had taken turns reminiscing about their encounters with the indomitable Heloise Herrickson, but they had businesses to attend to.

  Bartholomew Frick rushed off with the rest of them, not acknowledging the other guests, his great-aunt’s friends and neighbors. During the memorial, Frick had been tight-lipped, declining to speak about his great-aunt, or even to take a handful of her ashes to cast into the sea.

  I didn’t have time to wonder about his behavior as he hurried off the pier. I had my hands full. My sister Livvie and her husband Sonny left the Jacquie II and jumped into our Boston Whaler, which was also tied up at the pier. Sonny was our bake master, overseeing the tower of hot rocks that cooked the lobsters, clams, corn, onions, potatoes, and eggs we served to the guests. Livvie ran the kitchen that put out the clam chowder along with the blueberry grunt we served for dessert.

  I gave my sister a hug as she ran by. “It was good of you to come,” I said. It had taken meticulous planning to have our employees cover both the clambake fire and the kitchen, as well as care for my ten-year-old niece and six-month-old nephew. Fortunately, it was the best time of year for it. By mid-August the clambake team was experienced, running at its peak, and we hadn’t yet started losing the college students and out-of-state teachers whose jobs seemed to start earlier every year.

  Chris lingered until all the mourners were off the boat and before the lunch customers boarded. Given his feelings about public displays of affection, he surprised me by giving me a quick kiss and whispering, “I love you,” in my ear.

  I kissed him back. “Love you, too. See you tonight.”

  “I’ll be late,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Once the lunch guests were on board, we pulled back into the harbor. Captain George narrated the tour. As we passed the harbor islands, he pointed out the seals sunning themselves, the bald eagle perched in an evergreen, and the osprey’s nest on the rocky outcropping beside Dinkum’s Light. Only someone who’d been on the trip as often as I had would have noticed that he’d shortened it by ten minutes or so, making up the time lost to the memorial.

  As the Jacquie II left the warm embrace of Busman’s Harbor and entered the Gulf of Maine, guests shrugged into sweatshirts or windbreakers. I offered blankets to those who, back when they were in the August heat on the mainland, hadn’t read or believed our advice to bring something warm to wear on the water.

  Ten minutes later, just as the little ones on board were getting antsy, Morrow Island appeared ahead. As we drew closer to the long dock, the features of the island came into focus, the little house where Livvie and Sonny and their kids lived in the summer on one side of the dock, and the clambake fire on a long, flat expanse on the other. On the island’s first plateau was the dining pavilion that housed about half our tables, plus the gift shop, bar, and our tiny kitchen. Along the flat green space once called the great lawn were the volleyball nets and bocce courts for the guests. At the highest point on the island was the partially burned ruin of my ancestors’ mansion, Windsholme. A year after the fire, plans to restore it were underway. But our guests couldn’t see that. All they could see were the boarded up windows and roof, and the ugly orange hazard fence that surrounded her.

  I moved to starboard to help the crew tie the lines and to be the first one on the dock in order to greet our guests. They came off the boat, taking in the rugged island and the smells of salt water, evergreens, and wood smoke. Le Roi, the island’s Maine coon cat, ran to greet them. Maine coons have many doglike qualities, greeting people being only one, but in Le Roi’s case I suspected a larger agenda. If he charmed our patrons now, they’d be more apt to slip him a piece of lobster or a clam as he lingered under their tables.

  The guests spread out, some to the bar, some to play games, some to find the perfect table, perhaps in a grove overlooking the ocean. The more ambitious hiked up to Windsholme or all the way to the beach on the other side of the island. I watched them go, but only for a second, and then ran up the walk to the dining pavilion. Showtime!

  * * *

  The height of the season and the late start for the boat combined to create a busy lunch seating. I moved among the guests, showing this one how to use the crackers to open the lobster’s claws, and that one how to dredge the steamers in the clam juice before eating them. I was tired by the time we waved the customers off at the dock and happy to sit down to our family meal while the Jacquie II returned to the harbor and picked up the next group.

  Family meal was my favorite part of the day. In the quiet time between the lunch and dinner rushes, all our employees sat down together to enjoy our own food. Livvie and her crew in the kitchen whipped up something inexpensive and hearty to fill up people who had done the tough, physical work to ensure that our customers had a marvelous time. Often, we took advantage of our pipeline to fresh, local seafood. Today, the cooks presented us with linguini with clam sauce and an enormous summer salad. The food and cold drinks were on the bar, buffet style. The clam sauce smelled briny and fresh, like the ocean. I helped myself and found a spot at one of the two long tables in the
dining pavilion where we all ate.

  The table was already occupied by Quentin Tupper and Wyatt Jayne. Neither of them were Snowden Family Clambake employees, though they both had business on the island. Quentin was our investor, the silent partner who’d rescued the clambake from certain bankruptcy the year before. He was a burly man, dressed as he was every day in the summer, in a blue cotton dress shirt, khaki shorts and boat shoes.

  Wyatt was the architect he’d recommended to oversee the renovation of Windsholme. She looked pretty and professional in a colorful summer shift, every long, shiny brunette hair in place, despite having arrived on the island in Quentin’s sailboat. By coincidence, she and I had gone to prep school together fifteen years earlier. That hadn’t gotten us off to a good start. Our history had been rocky, but we were past that now. Wyatt was on the island to work on the plans for the renovation. Quentin was along to “help out.”

  Mom sat next to me and dug into her meal. She closed her eyes and sighed. “So good.” She was blonde and petite. People said I looked like her.

  “The best, Mrs. S,” Mary Carey said. “Livvie sure can cook.” Mary taught third grade at Busman’s Harbor Elementary, and had supplemented her income by waitressing at the clambake every summer for years.

  Mom smiled. “I’m lucky that way.”

  “How was Mrs. H’s memorial? I wanted to go but—” Mary had come to work instead.

  “She was the loveliest person,” Leila Caspari said. She sat to the right of her best friend Mary, like always.

  “Such a character,” Livvie said. “The wigs! A different crazy style and color for every day of the week.” As she’d entered her nineties, Heloise had dealt with her thinning hair by adopting the wildest set of wigs any of us had ever seen.