Brush with Death Page 14

  “I can imagine,” Catherine said, pursing her lipsticked lips. “He’s a nice man, but if I were her, I wouldn’t be pleased if my brother’s male lover were trying to horn in on my inheritance.”

  FOURTEEN

  I BLINKED AT HER. “What?”

  “Fernand’s sister seems to think he was considering writing a new will,” she said.

  I glanced at the swinging door to the dining room and thought of Frederick, subjected to both Irene and Catherine. “On second thought, maybe it would be better if you stayed here with us,” I said.

  “Oh, Natalie. I know when to keep quiet,” she said. Before I could respond, she was through the swinging door and striding across the dining room.

  John’s eyes met mine. “We may have another murder soon,” I said, half-joking.

  “Murder? Or self-defense?” John asked.

  “Just check on them from time to time, please. Better yet, maybe you could keep your mother company in there.” I gave him a pleading look.

  “But you need help in here,” he said. “Your hand …”

  “Is fine,” I said. I had covered the butterfly bandages with a large latex bandage, and it was holding up well. “You can do the dishes when they’ve gone upstairs.”

  He groaned. “Is it too early for a shot of rum in my coffee?”

  “Yes,” I said, grinning. “Maybe you can ask her what happened to her grandmother’s ring.”

  “That’ll make for some terrific conversation.”

  “Better than talking about lovers and wills,” I pointed out. “Now, go.”

  With another deep sigh, he followed his mother into the dining room, and I busied myself in the kitchen.

  _____

  Thankfully, everyone survived breakfast, and John took care of clean-up while I fed Biscuit—wet cat food, to her delight—and excused myself to take a shower. When I came downstairs at 10:30, the truck was back in the driveway, but I didn’t see Gwen; I wondered how her meeting had gone. I wanted to go check the Crow’s Nest, but Frederick was waiting for me in the parlor.

  “I can’t wait to get this over with,” he said as I walked in. I glanced at the staircase and decided I’d check on Gwen later.

  “Do you have a key?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go, then,” I said, and headed for the front door with Frederick in my wake.

  As I headed to the van, I found myself glancing around, looking for other things out of place—another voodoo doll, maybe, or another splatter of blood. My eyes lingered on the steps to the kitchen door; I could still see tinges of pink on the crusted snow. Whose blood was it? I found myself wondering again, then pushed the thought away.

  “How long were you and Fernand together?” I asked as we settled ourselves into the front seats of the van.

  “About a year,” he said.

  “I didn’t realize you had come to visit.”

  “I was only here a few times. We tried to keep things quiet,” he said. “Smaller towns can be very conservative.”

  I thought of the petition Maggie Brumbacher was circulating about the elementary school teacher. Yes, they could. “You’re from Bangor, right?” I asked.

  He nodded. “But I was planning on moving here with Fernand. In the spring.”

  “It was pretty serious, then.”

  “Yes,” he said, and it came out as a sob.

  “I’m so sorry, Frederick,” I said, and reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “I just can’t believe he would have done something like this,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “It was a shock to all of us.” The van crested the hill. The wind had torn the snow from the branches, and the sky was a leaden gray. “Did he mention being depressed at all?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not that I heard. I told you, his business was growing, he was happy in his work … and I think he was happy in our relationship. He’d just set up a trip to Florence for us. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t planning to be there.” He looked at me with something like desperation in his eyes. “Would he?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it,” I said. “If you visited, though, I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before—it’s such a small island. Did you take the mail boat to get here?” He hadn’t made the island gossip circuit, but enough tourists visited the island that it wasn’t entirely surprising.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “But more often I took the dinghy. Fernand would take it over to the mainland and leave it for me if I was coming in too late for the mail boat, like when I had to drive in from Bangor after work. I didn’t like to do it—usually he came to get me—but if he had a class or something, or I wasn’t sure when I was going to make it in, we’d do it that way.” He shivered. “I’m not a boat person.”

  We pulled up outside Fernand’s house, and I cut the engine. Frederick sat quietly for a long moment, while I waited. “I’m ready,” he said finally.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” I asked.

  “If you don’t, you’ll freeze,” he said. He turned and looked at me with reddened eyes. “You found him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, and found myself hoping they had cleaned up. “Why don’t I go upstairs and make sure everything’s okay before you go up there?”

  “It happened upstairs, then,” he said, looking pale.

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  He nodded, and I followed him to the front door, the icy wind biting through our clothes.

  The heat was on, thankfully, and the house smelled of cleaning products, which I took to be a good sign. I glanced at Frederick; he had gone ghostly white. Again, I thought to myself that he was either a terrific actor or he had really cared for Fernand. Had he come over on the dinghy and killed Fernand? If so, why? Was it because Fernand had changed the will in his favor? Was he having financial troubles? I found myself glancing out a window toward the water. Where was Fernand’s dinghy, anyway?

  “Why don’t you sit in the kitchen?” I said, taking his arm and steering him away from the staircase. “I’ll be right back.”

  I left him at the kitchen table while I climbed the stairs, praying that the police had cleaned up. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw that the floor gleamed once again. The dust ruffle was missing from the bed, but other than that, there was no sign of what had happened here. I hurried back downstairs to Frederick.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Where did you find him?” he asked, looking up at me with tortured eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I want your memories of this house to be good ones.”

  “How can they be?” he asked, but did not press me for details. “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I have to do this alone.” He pushed the chair back with a scraping sound and slowly walked down the hallway toward the stairs.

  As I sat at the kitchen table, wincing at the thought of what Frederick must be experiencing, my eyes were drawn once again to the coffee carafe that Fernand would never use again. I felt restless, sitting and waiting. And it occurred to me that if he had been murdered, the clue to his death might be here, in the house. And I was sitting in the kitchen, doing nothing.

  I started to get up, then stopped myself. It felt wrong to pry.

  But if I was bringing a murderer to justice, wouldn’t it be justified?

  I knew Fernand’s office was in the next room. I debated it for a few minutes, but then decided to at least take a look at it.

  Listening for the sound of Frederick’s footsteps on the stairs, I slipped through the doorway at the end of the kitchen into Fernand’s office.

  Like every other room in the house, it was tidy, with signed original artwork on the walls and gorgeous views of the water. The desk was antique cherry, with a laptop placed in the center and a beautiful lamp crafted of metal and seaglass in one corner. In the other corner was a neat stack of papers. The top page was a
printout of a New York Times article on Nina Torrone. After a moment’s hesitation, I picked it up and leafed through the stack; below were several other articles on Torrone, from papers around the country. Was that how he knew what her favorite drink was? I wondered. Why was he so fascinated with the artist? I picked them up and leafed through them. Each article was accompanied by a picture of Torrone. Evidently sunglasses were her trademark; in all four images, the top half of her face was obscured by them. In one, she held a cigarette in a paint-stained hand. There was one picture of Torrone with her agent; the image showed him in the background as she apparently held forth, cocktail glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, with a fellow artist. Her body language in the picture was open and confident; very different from the woman I had met the other day. Was it because of the alcohol? Her hands were those of a working artist; like Gwen’s, they bore streaks of paint. Was this image an alcohol-fueled anomaly? Or had something happened to make her change?

  And more importantly, why was Fernand so interested in her that he had printed multiple articles? It did smack a bit of obsession, a thought I found disturbing. Had he really killed himself out of jealousy? Was he secretly in love with her—and was that why he died? I glanced through the articles again. They talked about her bold style, and the rising prices of her artwork, which had been selling for less than $50 apiece just a few years earlier. Fernand had visited New York several times over the past decade, Gwen had told me. Had he known her there?

  I leafed through the rest of the papers, pausing when I spotted one from an attorney in Bangor. It was dated two weeks ago. “The documents you requested have been prepared. Please call our office to schedule an appointment.”

  Had he, though? I looked around for a calendar, but found none. With yet another twinge of guilt, I opened the top drawer of the desk. Nothing but pens and envelopes neatly lined up. I searched the other drawers, but before I could finish, I heard Frederick’s footsteps on the stairs and hurried back to the kitchen, wishing I’d had just a few more minutes.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as Frederick shuffled down the hall.

  “I’ve said my goodbyes,” he said. “Now I just have to arrange the service.”

  I bit my lip. “Have you spoken with his sister?”

  He nodded stiffly. “He hadn’t been in contact with her for a decade, but the police notified her first.”

  “What about his parents?” I asked.

  “They disowned him,” he said bitterly. “I imagine they won’t be attending his memorial service.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, again feeling sadness for what Fernand must have gone through. And what Frederick was going through now. He stood in the kitchen, looking as if he were adrift at sea. I needed to get him out of here, I realized. “Do you need to look anywhere else?” I asked gently.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve done what I came to do.” I wondered what that was, but didn’t ask. There was bitterness in his voice when he spoke again. “Do you know I found out about Fernand in the newspaper? Nobody called me. And now I have to convince the priest to let me help with the service.”

  “I’m so sorry. Frederick. I think Irene believes she’s going to organize it.”

  His face suffused with color. “How would she know what Fernand would have wanted? It’s ridiculous.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He was right. But there was nothing I could do about it. “Why don’t we drop by the rectory on the way home?” I asked. “I hope you don’t mind; I called Father Timothy yesterday to let him know the situation.”

  Frederick turned to look at me. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing,” I confessed. “I left a message.”

  Frederick sighed, his eyes sweeping the room. Like mine, they lingered on the coffee cups, and the empty carafes. The house felt empty without its vibrant owner. “Let’s go,” he said. “I can’t bear it anymore.”

  I couldn’t either.

  Frederick locked the door behind us as we left. “I won’t be needing this again,” he said, his voice hollow, and shoved the key into his pocket. As we drove to the rectory, I braved a question. “Did Fernand say anything about Nina Torrone coming to the island?” I asked.

  “He mentioned he was having a party for her,” he said. “I was hoping to be invited, but he told me it wasn’t time. We were going to be moving in together over the summer, though, so I don’t know what he was so worried about. People were going to have to find out sooner or later.”

  “Whose idea was the move?”

  “Both of us,” he said, too quickly. “Someone was harassing him. I told Fernand if I were here, maybe whoever it was would realize he was in a relationship, and would lay off.”

  “Harassing him?” I asked, surprised by this piece of news. “He never said anything about that to me. Did he tell you who it was?”

  “It was a man on the island,” Frederick said. “Fernand never told me who it was, but he showed up drunk several nights. I think he left notes, too … Fernand never told me what was in them, though.”

  “I had no idea,” I said. It opened up a line of possibility I hadn’t considered before. Had Fernand been killed by a frustrated admirer?

  “Of course you wouldn’t have known,” Frederick said. “Fernand wouldn’t have said anything. He thought people didn’t know he was gay.”

  “I didn’t,” I admitted. Although evidently I’d been the only one on the island.

  “He was very quiet about it. You never know how things like that will go over in small communities.”

  “The local teacher seems to be doing okay,” I said.

  “Really? I thought someone had started a petition about her,” he said.

  “Well, mostly okay,” I said. “Let’s get back to this admirer, though,” I said, anxious to change the subject.

  “I know things escalated recently,” Frederick said. “Fernand said he’d gotten a lot of phone calls. The guy would just call, and call, and call.”

  “And you don’t know who it was?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.” Frederick turned to me, and a light seemed to go on in his eyes. “Do you think …”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s certainly a theory.”

  “I hate to suggest it, but maybe, if we go back, we might be able to find out. Maybe if Fernand had caller ID, we could get a number.”

  “Maybe we can go this evening,” I said. “If we can find some evidence of who was calling, it might be enough to get the police to investigate.” I watched him, looking for a flicker of fear, but he seemed genuinely excited. I was on the verge of telling him about the footprints I’d seen behind Fernand’s house, but decided against it. I still didn’t know Frederick very well.

  “We’re here,” I said as we pulled up outside the rectory. “I’ll walk up with you.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Father Timothy answered the door when I knocked. He was an older man with a shock of bright white hair and a kindly face. I introduced Frederick; he didn’t blink an eye when I explained their relationship.

  “I’m so very sorry, my son,” the priest said in his comforting, gravelly voice. “Come in and have a cup of tea.”

  I shot Father Timothy a grateful glance. He’d only been on the island a few months, but his presence was a real addition to the community. “Can you drop him off at the inn when you’re finished?”

  “Of course,” he said as I headed back to the van. I was glad Frederick wasn’t going to be alone—and hoped Father Timothy could find a way to help balance Fernand’s service. As I backed out of the rectory driveway, I glanced at the clock on the van’s dash. I’d forgotten Winter Knitters was meeting this afternoon, I realized. I wanted to go—I was curious if anyone knew anything about the person leaving nasty surprises on my doorstep—but I dreaded the knitting.

  Maybe I’d use the cut on my hand as an excuse to sit and eat cookies.

  _____

  By the time I got back to the inn, I had just enough time
to take care of the rooms before making it to Winter Knitters. I hadn’t had time to bake, but I found some molasses snap cookies in the freezer. Gwen walked in as I was digging in search of a second bag.

  “How did it go with Zelda Chu?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at my niece.

  “Okay,” she said. “She really likes my watercolors, and offered to give me a few pointers on the oils.”

  “Wonderful!” I said, finding the second bag and closing the freezer door. “Did she offer you studio space?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and she’s willing to mentor me.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Her art is very different from yours … is that going to be a problem?” After seeing how Gwen had tied herself in knots trying to please Munger, the plaid-clad gallery owner, I was concerned. Again, I felt a wave of sadness that Fernand was gone.

  “She’s the only option I have right now,” she said, her shoulders slumped.

  “What about the mainland? There are a lot of artists in this area,” I said. “I want to make sure you have the right mentor.”

  “I don’t know, Aunt Nat,” she said, twisting her hair between her fingers. I wished I knew what to tell her. Maybe I’d ask John to talk to her again. “By the way, she wants me to ask if you’ve thought about the retreat offer.”

  “Are you okay with it?”

  She sighed. “I feel like a traitor for saying so, but there’s no point in saying no.”

  “Why a traitor?” I asked, searching for a tin for the cookies.

  “She was Fernand’s enemy,” Gwen said. “In fact, I think she wants to buy his gallery.”

  My antennae pricked up. “Oh, really?”

  Gwen nodded. “She’s planning to expand her program. Maybe run the retreat in connection with one of the New York universities.”

  “That must be the proposal she was asking Fernand about at the party,” I said. “He didn’t seem too jazzed about it.”

  “That was probably it,” she said.

  Was the promise of potential waterfront property a motive for murder? It seemed like a long shot to me; after all, how would you know if the property’s heir would be any more likely to sell? Unless Zelda and Fernand’s sister had been in collusion …