Sealed Off Page 11

  Jamie met us at the town pier where our Boston Whaler was tied up. He seemed happy for the adventure, glad to get out of whatever he was supposed to be doing that morning.

  During the ride, Marguerite sat in the back of the boat, swaddled in blankets. Even Tallulah, the human furnace, deigned to put on the leather jacket. As we neared Morrow Island, I saw the young seal again, sitting on the same rock outcropping. He followed us with his big, round eyes as we glided past. “He looks so alone,” I said.

  “He is alone.” Jamie cupped his hand around his mouth. “Hey, buddy! It’s time to go south,” he shouted. “Time for you to get underway.”

  The seal turned his head and followed our movement to the dock.

  “Do you think we should check on him?” I asked when we’d tied up at the dock.

  “Who? The seal? It’s illegal to go within a hundred and fifty feet of him,” Jamie answered. “Leave him alone. He knows what to do.”

  “Do you think he’s sick?” Seals had washed up all along the Maine coast the previous year, dead from distemper.

  Jamie thought a moment. “Has he moved from there?”

  “I saw him dive into the water when I was on the Jacquie II the other day.”

  “He’s feeding. He’s fine,” Jamie said. “Leave him be.”

  There was yellow crime scene tape around the woodpile. Lieutenant Binder had said not to go near it and I had no desire to. The thought of Jason lying there under the logs . . . I shuddered.

  “You okay?” Jamie was good at noticing people and their reactions. His job demanded it.

  “Yeah. Someone walked over my grave.”

  Jamie looked over at the woodpile. “Maybe not your grave.”

  I stared up the steep hill toward Windsholme and once again wondered how we’d get Marguerite up there. Reminding myself that she’d made it last time, I led our little group slowly up the path to the dining pavilion. Jamie and Tallulah flanked Marguerite. She made good use of her cane and didn’t hold on to either of them.

  At the pavilion we stopped. Marguerite sat on a picnic bench while I gathered three large plastic bins to put the sealed room’s furnishings in. The bins were normally used to store linens and paper goods—anything the mice would find attractive—over the winter. Morrow Island didn’t have squirrels or even chipmunks, but we did have mice, voyagers no doubt on the hundreds of ships that had stopped at the island, both during my family’s ownership and before. With constant access to seafood, Le Roi thought mousing was beneath him. The population was kept in check by the owls and hawks that visited and we never saw the mice in the summer. But once we were gone, the place shut down, the water turned off, the mice took over like they owned the place. It added a burden to spring cleaning, which was why anything that made good nesting material was sealed up, but other than that we lived with them in harmony, neither much interfering with the other.

  We left the pavilion, this time with Tallulah and me flanking Marguerite on the path and Jamie carrying the tubs. When we reached Windsholme, Marguerite turned and started for the woods.

  “The playhouse,” she cried. “So many happy memories.”

  The path through the woods to the playhouse had become overgrown in the past year. A perfect, miniature replica of Windsholme, it had two good-sized rooms and had been used to house the island caretaker and his wife. Now it was unoccupied and rarely visited. With a limited crew and a lot of ground to tend, the landscape around it wasn’t a priority. Marguerite, however, traveled on, moving low branches out of her way with her cane.

  “Can we go inside?” she asked.

  “Of course.” I rushed around her to open the door. When I did the smell of mildew whooshed out. “I don’t really think—” I started to say, worried about the state of a ninety-plus-year-old’s pulmonary system.

  Marguerite would not be deterred. She took two strides and was inside the playhouse. “The best thing about summers at Windsholme was the other children.” She turned slowly, taking in the space. The front room had a stone fireplace, an old-fashioned kitchen counter with a sink in it, a small, round table, two hard wooden chairs, and a daybed that served as a couch. “I was my mother’s only child,” she said, “a widow’s daughter, far too much the center of her attention. In the summers, my half brothers’ children were here and we were allowed the run of the place. William had two sons and Charles a son and two daughters. I was the youngest; they were all older than me, and so tolerant of me tagging along. They were much more welcoming to me than the grown-ups were to my mother, the much younger, olive-skinned second wife. We played in the playhouse for hours.” She stomped into the second room, the one we called the bunk room. Wooden bunk beds lined the two opposite walls. We’d removed the mattresses. They made the playhouse far too attractive to our high school and college-aged employees, who always seemed to pair up over the summer. None of us could follow her into the bunk room; the space left between the beds was too narrow.

  “So many happy hours,” we heard her say. “We played here, and on the little beach on the other side of the island, and hours and hours of croquet and badminton on the front lawn. I was too young to hit anything with a badminton racket, so my job was to retrieve the shuttlecock when someone missed it.” She came to the doorway between the rooms. “They’re all gone, now, of course. I’m the only one left.”

  We went to Windsholme after that. I worried Marguerite was down, but she was buoyed by the possibilities of the empty house with no demo crew or large group trailing behind her. This time we entered on the other side of the house, through the French doors to the west wing. I thought Marguerite would linger, but she moved as fast as her two legs and one cane could carry her. “This is where my half brothers played billiards after dinner. This is where my mother played the piano while the brothers and their wives played bridge.”

  We reentered through the dining room and went up the back stairs. Marguerite lingered in her mother’s old room. “I better get to work on stuff in the secret room,” I said.

  Tallulah said, “I’ll help you.”

  “Don’t pack anything away until I get there,” Jamie reminded me.

  We left Marguerite alone with her thoughts and Jamie to watch her. I carried the plastic tubs across the scaffolding to the other side of the second floor.

  The secret room was as we had left it, undisturbed for over a century, and apparently undisturbed for the last two days, despite the murder and presence of dozens of police and technicians on the island. Tallulah helped me photograph the entire space using my phone, pointing out items or angles I might have missed.

  Now that I’d heard the entries from Lilly’s journal the room felt different. When I’d first seen it through the framing, it was like a period room in a museum. A place where time stood still. But now the room had come alive. It belonged to a happy, adventurous young woman who was having the summer of her life. What could have happened here? Why was it left like this?

  Lilly had written that Frederick Morrow’s room had a locked doorway into hers. That made sense if the room had originally been, as Wyatt surmised, the dressing room for his adjacent bedroom. A blank wall ran from the end of the bed to the corner of the room nearest the hallway. I felt the old plaster for a door frame, but it was smooth.

  I heard Marguerite coming toward us down the hall, telling Jamie who had slept in each bedroom.

  “How do you think your grandmother is doing with all this?” I asked Tallulah.

  “Fine. Fantastic. She’s thrilled to be here.”

  Tallulah was an upbeat person. I worried she’d missed some sign of distress. “Is she upset we’re changing Windsholme so much?”

  Tallulah was on the bed examining the books. “She loves that the house will still be here and will be used.” Tallulah hesitated, as if looking for the right words. “You don’t need to worry about Granny being polite. You may have noticed she says what she thinks, sometimes to a fault.”

  We were both still chuckling at that when Mar
guerite teetered into the nursery. “I slept here with the younger children,” she told Jamie. “Windsholme was the only place I ever slept in a room with other children until I went away to school. In the summer, when the days are so long, we’d stay up giggling for hours. It was like summer camp for me.”

  “I know how that is.” As a child Jamie had spent plenty of nights on Morrow Island, talking half the night with Livvie and me. “We need to get back,” he said.

  He helped Tallulah and I strip the room. We emptied the bureau, writing desk, and wardrobe. Then we removed the light summer bedspread, cotton blanket, and the yellowing sheets from the thin mattress, then rolled it up and took apart the bed frame. The writing desk, chair, nightstand, and bureau were light. We could easily take them in the Whaler. The old wardrobe was another story. Sonny and Chris would have to come for it later.

  Marguerite watched our every move. Her eyes were bright, but her body sagged. It was time to get her home.

  On our way down the hallway, I put down the bin I carried. “Wait a sec.” I dashed into the bedroom that had been Frederick Morrow’s. There was a small closet, and at the back of it, another door. I tried it, but it didn’t budge. It had been closed off from the other side.

  Leaving the island, we sailed by the seal. He tracked us with his eyes. “Go south,” Jamie called to him again. “Go find the rest of your tribe.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I called Sonny from the Whaler on the way back and he met us at the pier with his pickup. I was glad to be able to offer Marguerite a ride back to Mom’s house, though after she made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to climb in, he had to lift her into the cab.

  Once we had settled Marguerite in with a cup of warm tea and a chicken salad sandwich, I went to Mom’s garage and pulled out the Subaru. I’d loved my old Caprice, but a month earlier, it had announced loudly and definitively that it was through. At first, I was disappointed to lose a car with so much character as the old Caprice and trade it for the most common and therefore anonymous car in Maine. But then I experienced the miracle that when I turned the key the engine started, the heat came on, and the wipers cleaned the windshield. The Subaru and I began a love affair.

  I could have walked to Pru’s house, but I dreaded going there and wasn’t ready to. Instead I drove to Thistle Island, where Emmy lived. The island was connected to the mainland by a swing bridge that pivoted open to let boats reach moorings up the river. Boat traffic was down in the waning days of the season. Every day, pleasure boats were being taken out of the water and buttoned up for winter storage. By this time of year, only the lobstermen used the narrow channel, so the bridge stayed closed and I traveled the road that ringed the island, reaching Emmy’s trailer in twenty minutes.

  Her trailer was parked on her grandmother’s property. From the outside it looked worn, but inside Emmy had done her best to create a functional home for Vanessa and Luther. If her grandmother’s house had been on a waterfront lot on the other side of the road, the land alone would have been worth a million dollars. What a difference two hundred yards made.

  Emmy opened the door before I was even up the path. “What brings you out here this afternoon?” She gestured for me to come in.

  Vanessa was still at school. Luther sat in a high chair pulled up to the trailer’s single table.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” she answered. “I’m freaked out Jason was murdered, like everyone else is, but really, I’m okay.”

  “You told me you were seeing him. I was worried—”

  “I don’t want you to think I’m cold. Of course, I’m upset. But my relationship with Jason was . . . I guess ‘casual’ is the best word for it. Ninety-nine percent of it took place at the Snowden Family Clambake, right under your nose.”

  “But I thought . . . I mean, you’re both single adults.”

  She smiled. “Adults, yes. Single, hardly. I have two jobs and two kids at home. Jason had two jobs and two kids he spent time with. Our ‘big affair’ consisted of flirting at work and exactly two dates, a burger at Crowley’s and one nice dinner at the Bellevue Inn. We had a romantic meal, and then I drove myself home and changed Luther’s diaper.”

  “Your relationship drove Pru crazy.”

  “It did. At first I worried the only reason Jason was into me was to drive his ex crazy. But after he and I went out that second time, I got comfortable he was interested in me.”

  I hesitated. “You don’t think Pru was angry enough to—”

  Emmy’s head snapped back. “Kill him? How can you even ask me that?”

  “Someone killed him. Terry thinks the cops suspect him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Terry’s the nicest guy. He always helped me. I didn’t even have to ask.”

  “He’s an ex-con. He had a fistfight with Jason the day before the murder. You can see how the cops might get there.”

  Emmy’s big blue eyes opened wide. “Do you think Terry killed Jason?”

  “Of course not,” I answered. “But if not Terry or Pru, who could it have been? When you were with Jason did he mention anything he was into, anything at all that could have gotten him killed?”

  “No.” She hesitated.

  “What?” When she didn’t answer, I pressed her. “Emmy, come on. You don’t want Terry to go back to jail, do you? If you know something, tell me.”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Anything at all might help.”

  Still, it took a while before she spoke. “When the weekday clambakes ended after Labor Day, I thought Jason and I would see more of each other. Instead, I saw him less. He would . . .” She stopped again. I waited as patiently as I could. Finally, she went on. “During the week, between clambakes, sometimes he would be gone for two or three nights. He’d drop out of sight, basically. He wouldn’t be able to see me, but also he wouldn’t call or text for days at a time. He didn’t try to reach me and I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Do you think it was another woman?” Maybe there was someone else. Someone we didn’t know about who was close enough to kill.

  “I did wonder,” Emmy said. “I’ve explained how casual things were between us. There was certainly no agreement about or even discussion of exclusivity.” Her brow puckered.

  “But,” I prompted.

  “I don’t think that was it. I never got the sense he was seeing someone else. But I could have read the situation wrong.” She gave a little laugh. “I’ve done that before.”

  “Did you ever see Jason with any of the members of the demolition crew working at Windsholme?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know any of them if I passed them in the street. Do you think they had something to do with his murder?”

  “Probably not. Do you know where Jason’s money came from? That big, fancy new boat?”

  “From lobstering.” Emmy seemed amazed I had to ask. “He was a highliner. You know that.”

  Did I? If Jason was such hot stuff, why did he still make time to work at the clambake? “I’m sorry about Jason,” I said.

  “I’m sad,” Emmy said. “I’m sad and I’m mad. I should have made more of an effort to spend time with him. It might have been great. Life is too short, you know? Look at Jason. Life is too short.”

  * * *

  There were cars in the driveway and along the street when I got to Pru Caraway’s house. I wasn’t surprised to spot Livvie’s ancient minivan among them. Seeing Livvie’s van made me feel terrible. How could I be coming here hoping to question this woman about her husband’s murder? Pru had worked at the clambake for my parents, for Sonny when he’d run the business, and now for me. I should have planned to come as her employer.

  I’d had enough presence of mind to stop at Gina’s Farm Stand on the way back from Emmy’s and pick up an apple pie, so at least I wasn’t arriving empty-handed. I climbed out of the Subaru and picked the pie up off the seat.

  Inside the house, Pru’s living room was crowded with women.
Livvie came to embrace me. “Pru will appreciate you coming.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen. Follow me.”

  Livvie headed toward the kitchen. Pru’s house wasn’t what I’d been expecting at all. From outside, it looked like its neighbors, a two-story house on a small in-town lot without a view. The houses on the street had been developed after World War II to provide affordable homes in what was then a thriving fishing port. I’d been in and out of these houses all through elementary and middle school for birthday parties and sleepovers. They were three bedrooms up, living, dining, kitchen down. Over the years, many of them had been altered to add a powder room downstairs, or a garage or a deck in the back.

  Pru’s house was something else. The living room was bright and cheery with aqua walls and fancy, gleaming woodwork that couldn’t have been original. The furniture all matched, or rather the pieces complemented one another. The room felt like it was designed by someone who watched a lot of HGTV or who read articles in glossy decorating magazines with titles like “A Summer Retreat in Maine.”

  The kitchen was even more surprising, stocked with fancy stainless appliances and countertops made of some sort of bright, white composite with sparkly white stones embedded in it. The wall between the kitchen and dining room had been taken down to create one long room with sliding doors at the end that opened to a big deck. The white dining table near the sliders was laden with food—ham, turkey, potato salad, baked beans in a warming tray, fruit salad, and plenty of desserts. Livvie took my pie and put it on the table.

  “Julia.” Pru came forward to embrace me.

  “I am so sorry.” I hugged Pru back and felt her bony shoulders. Pru had always been thin, though now in middle age, she’d thickened through the middle. She and Jason were the living embodiment of the old complaint that men get handsomer with age and women get older. Her reddish brown hair had thinned. She never did anything with it except pull it back in a ponytail. I’d always seen her as a woman worked to the bone who didn’t have time to care how she looked. But she obviously cared how her home looked.