B000FC1MHI EBOK (9 page)

But he felt better now, he realized. Being confused wasn’t so bad when someone else felt the same. It was the old misery-loves-company thing, and it took the edge off his angst—at least until the angst took on a new focus. That happened the following Tuesday, at the tail end of his father’s funeral.

T
he island graveyard sat on a hill overlooking the sea. Given the nature of those who lay there, this was fitting. Equally fitting, the head-stones were cut of island granite and locally carved. A small chapel stood off to the side, built of stone for practical reasons. Exposed to the elements on the hill, a chapel of wood might have crumbled under a regular battering by wind, sea salt, and rain. On this spot, everything had to be solid. “Eternity” was the operative word.

Of the victims of the accident, the Walshes, Todd Slokum, and Artie Jones were being buried back near family homes on the mainland. The rest were buried on Big Sawyer. They were islanders related to islanders, which meant that their funerals were attended by just about everyone who lived there. Dar Hutter’s was Monday morning, Greg Hornsby’s that afternoon, and Grady Bartz’s the next morning, all in fog, reminiscent of how they had died. For the most part, Julia stood with Zoe, and at those times was as much a part of the community as any stranger could be. It was when the eulogies were done and Zoe turned to talk with friends that Julia felt separate.

At those times, rather than stand idly at Zoe’s side, she drifted off to the edge of the cemetery and gazed out over the sea. It calmed her. It was as though she was familiar with the ocean in a way that she wasn’t with these people, as though she and the ocean were connected. Likewise Noah. She didn’t talk to him, but she knew he was there. That knowledge grounded her.

Hutch’s funeral was the last. It was held Tuesday afternoon at four, a time that allowed members of the local lobster fleet to return from their day’s work and attend.

For Julia, the scenario here was the same as the others; ostensibly, she was neither more nor less a part of the gathering. But this funeral was different for her. She had never met Hutchinson Prine—could no more pick him out from the memory of the people gathered in the stern of the
Amelia Celeste
than she could pick out any of the others—but she did feel a connection to his son. This time, it didn’t bother her to be on the fringe of the crowd. She was even comfortable enough to stay on when Zoe slipped away to meet the afternoon ferry. Todd Slokum’s brother was coming to take Todd’s things back home, and Zoe felt responsible.

Comfortable with the silence of being alone, Julia stood at the end of the line of funeral-goers waiting to pay their respects to Noah. The sun had broken through the fog for the first time in two days. Its rays heated the trees on the slope of the hill, sending the fragrance of pine and spruce up into the graveyard.

As she moved slowly forward over the grass bordering the granite headstones, she thought about the quiet words that had been said about Hutch. A loyal man, one friend said. An independent man, another said. An able man, said a third.

She found herself wondering what would have been said about her, had she been the one who died. Loyal wife, surely. Loving mother. Able homemaker. Obedient woman.

Obedient woman. She didn’t know whether being called “obedient” was a compliment, but it was true. Obedient she was. She had been an obedient daughter to her parents and an obedient sister to her brothers. She had been an obedient student—always obedient in school—and an obedient bride. Oh, yes, she was that. Ten years her senior, Monte wanted babies, and Julia accommodated him. Miscar riages followed their initial success, though, and by the time it became clear that there would be no other children, he was successful enough in the world of high finance that he needed Julia as his hostess. Which she was. Obediently.

It could be said, she realized as she neared the front of the line, that taking this two-week trip to Big Sawyer without Monte was the most independent thing she had done in her life. Not that he appeared to mind. As promised, he had sent a package containing everything she would need to prolong her stay—money, credit cards, a set of car keys, and a new cell phone.

Loyal. Loving. Able. Obedient. Running through the list, she stopped short at the end.

Loyal. Loving. Able. Obedient. And… what else? She felt there ought to be something. But she couldn’t come up with a word.

When the person in front of her moved off, she approached Noah. He wore a sweater and slacks, the islanders’ equivalent of a jacket and tie. His were of fine quality, accommodating his significant height, well fitted over a trim, tapering body and the longest of legs. His dark hair was flecked with gray and the skin around his eyes was creased, but the impression was less of age than of exposure. Likewise, his face held color from the spring sun, though she sensed that the last few days had washed out much of it. His eyes were the dark blue of the sea, and they looked weary.

Still, she felt the same comfort she did each time she saw him. It was especially nice that he managed a smile. It was small, perhaps more a spasm than a smile. But for a few seconds it softened his face.

“My condolences,” she said. “Again.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the dinner. I ate it all.”

“The heating instructions were okay?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t bother to heat it up.”

She had to smile. “Was that laziness or hunger?”

“Hunger.”

“I’m glad it helped.” She looked over as a trio of workers began lowering the coffin into the ground. When she glanced up at Noah, he was watching them, too. His eyes held a whisper of horror. She saw him swallow.

“This is the hardest part,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps you’d rather be alone.”

He shot her a quick glance. “No. Stay.” As they watched, the coffin descended. It landed softly. The workers gently pulled the straps free and out of the hole. “Bet you didn’t think you’d spend your vacation going to funerals,” he murmured.

“I couldn’t have imagined any of this. It’s ironic, really. I’ve never been a good flyer. When I’m on an airplane, I’m holding the plane up by the arms of my seat, waiting for an accident to happen. But a boat ride? Safe as anything. Shows how much
I
know.”

“It usually is safe. For the ferry, at least. Working fishermen always face a weather risk. A big blow can come up in no time. Even the best of fishermen gets caught by surprise. If you have to go, it’s an honorable way. My father would have preferred that to this.”

Julia could understand it. The men in her life had always been cerebral, whereas men like Noah and his father relied on brawn. To die in a physical duel with nature was one thing; to die at the hands of a runaway boat was far less noble.

Had Monte been skippering the
Amelia Celeste,
he would have taken pride not in outrunning but in outwitting Artie Jones. Of course, Monte wouldn’t have been skippering the
Amelia Celeste
. He wouldn’t have been caught dead doing that kind of work. The son of a man who worked the docks in Boston, he had turned his back on physical labor and those who did it.

Noah suddenly looked over her head. She glanced back to see the police chief, John Roman, climbing the hill to the cemetery. A Crane cousin, he had the same kind eyes as Matthew, though he was far taller and rounder. That ample body was moving quickly enough now to suggest purpose.

Julia didn’t think he was coming for her. She had talked with him over the weekend, and hadn’t been able to tell him anything he didn’t already know. He seemed satisfied at the time.

Now his eyes held Noah’s. When he was near enough, he removed his cap and said a slightly winded, “Sorry, Noah. I wanted to be here. But there was a development ashore. I’m just now coming back.” He regarded Julia. “Did you hear?”

“Hear?”

“They brought up some of your things.”

She wanted to show excitement. Someone had put in extra effort to recover those things. But she felt as distant from her belongings as she continued to feel from her life. The best she could manage was a curious, “They did?”

“There’s a bag of clothes that’s kinda torn apart, but your pocket-book’s intact.” He turned to Noah again. “I’m coming from the medical examiner’s office. They finished the autopsy on Artie. There’s a twist.”

“It wasn’t his heart?” Noah asked.

“Sure was. The heart was gone before he hit the water, but it wasn’t just an ordinary old heart attack. Artie didn’t have a history of heart problems. His wife insisted on that. So the examiner went back and looked closely at some of the wounds to see if they could have caused the heart to give out. He just assumed those wounds were from fragments of debris that came from the explosion.” John Roman shook his head. “Gunshot wound.”

“
Gunshot?
” Noah asked.

Julia, too, felt the force of the word.

“Gunshot,” the police chief confirmed.

Noah frowned. “Around here we have spats and grudges. Some of ’em aren’t even so little. But if you’re saying that a man’s heart stopped because of a gunshot wound, that’s murder. We’ve never had anything like that here before.”

John gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t have to tell
me
that. This is a one-man department. Gear war’s the worst it gets.”

Julia was startled enough by the prospect of murder. She was wondering what “gear war” was—and whether she had
totally
misjudged the island—when Noah asked, “Are they sure?”

“It was a shoulder wound. The bullet shattered the bone and passed on out the other side, but there’s no doubt it was there.”

“A bullet, and not a piece of debris,” Noah specified.

“A bullet.”

“Could it have been an old wound?”

“Not with that kind of shattering. That kind of shattering would have needed repair. No, it was fresh.”

“Not, like, done the night before?”

“Nah. He wouldn’t have gone that long without treatment.”

“Would he have been shot on land and then gone off in
The Beast
?”

“Not likely.”

“Which means,” Noah concluded, “he was on the boat when he was shot. Was someone with him on
The Beast
?”

“I was gonna ask you that,” John said, broadening his gaze to include Julia. “Think again. Did you see anything in the fog? Anything during the first pass Artie made around the
Amelia Celeste
? Anything in the seconds before the collision? Anything at all on
The Beast
to suggest someone else was aboard?”

Julia tried to relive those moments and see something she hadn’t seen before, but the only image that came to mind was the one that continued to wake her in the middle of the night. “Just that purple bow shooting out of the fog.”

“That fog was thick,” Noah reminded John. “Greg was using his instruments, visibility was that poor. The first time around, we only heard him. The second time around—well, you know how those racers are built. They’re all nose. The cockpit was easily fifteen feet back from the bow. Visibility was less than that.”

“How about noise? Like a gunshot?” John asked.

“Above those engines?” Julia shook her head.

“The boat circled around us and went up to the north,” Noah said. “We didn’t hear it at all then. And we were making noise of our own—the motor, the chop against the hull. We wouldn’t have heard a gunshot. What about Artie’s wife? Did you ask if someone was with him?”

“She says he was alone. Divers are going down again to look for a weapon. And for another body, in case someone else was aboard.”

Noah ran a hand around the back of his neck. “If it wasn’t for the fog, he might have been shot from another boat or even from shore.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” Julia said. “Maybe he had the gun aboard and hit it or stepped on it. Maybe he was innocently putting it away when it discharged.” When neither man replied, she asked, “Did he have any enemies?”

“The wife says no,” John said and eyed Noah again. “What do you think?”

Looking back at Hutch’s grave, now half-filled with dirt, Noah chewed on his cheek before speaking. “I don’t know who or what he was back where he lived. Enemies up here? I think he annoyed lots of us with that boat, but that’s all it was, an annoyance. Nothing to kill someone over.”

“What about Kimmie?” John asked. “Would someone have killed over her?”

Julia was trying to make the connection, when John answered himself. “Nah. I don’t see it. It’d be too much of a coincidence to think that someone shoots Artie for her sake and then she nearly dies on the
Amelia Celeste
.”

“Is she talking?” Noah asked.

“Not yet. I’m going there now.” He put the cap back on his head. “I was hoping to catch the last of Hutch’s service. He was a good man.” Giving a clap to Noah’s shoulder, he went to the grave for a minute, before turning and striding down the hill.

“Kimmie?” Julia asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

Noah drew in a tired breath. “There were rumors she and Artie were an item.”

“How true were they?”

“You’d have to ask Kimmie. For what it’s worth, there are always rumors about Colella women.”

“With married men?” Artie Jones had a wife and four children.