Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (10 page)

"Why, are
you guilty?"

Chamberlain slid
a piece of paper across his desk. It was a ballistics report from the state
crime lab, saying a bullet fired from Chamberlain's gun did not match those
taken from the two bodies.

"Wanted the
record absolutely clear,” he said, a mocking grin on his face.

This may have
been amusing to him and me, but it was still sound police procedure.

"That only
leaves one other possibility,” I said, sliding the ballistics report back on
his desk. It was something I felt had to be placed before us. "Sandy had
her own brother killed, along with Bilotti. Stole her own money back, and made
off with the art collection."

"Why would
she hire you if she did it?"

"We're
listing possibilities,” I said, shrugging both shoulders. "She's on the
list."

Chamberlain
nodded.

"We need to
pay a visit to Monhegan Island. When can we get across?"

"I'll
arrange it, now." Chamberlain picked up the phone and punched in a number
from memory.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

J.L. booked us
two tickets to Monhegan Island aboard the ferry out of Port Clyde. It was
scheduled for a ten- thirty a.m. departure.

"You mean,
if it goes across,” I said, laughing. "Young Captain Barstein seems to run
when he needs the money."

J.L. looked at
me with a seriousness I had not seen before.

"We can't
control the weather,” he said, shoving the phone to the side of his desk.
"But the ferry will run tomorrow unless a hurricane blows out of the
north."

I laughed. J.L.
knew the sea as well as anyone. He understood that Barstein ran across when he
could. But J.L. was still miffed at the Captain neglecting to say he had seen
Rinaldi. Captain Barstein was in for a rough day tomorrow, both from the sea
and Chamberlain.

"This
weather should blow through tonight. It usually doesn't last long this time of
year,” J.L. said, looking out his window at the rain pelting down from the
darkening sky. "The wind will blow early, then lay about noon. We
shouldn't have any problem. I'll pick you up at the Navigator around eight o'clock
in the morning."

"Sounds
great to me,” I said, looking at my old Rolex GMT-master I bought twenty-five
years ago as a young aviator. It showed the time, both in local and Greenwich
Mean Time, and now read three o'clock. "So what do we spend the rest of
the day accomplishing?"

Chamberlain
looked up at me with sad eyes. A gust of wind rattled the window behind his
head. Rain spattered on the pane, running down in crooked lines.

"If you
don't mind, Jay, I'm going home. Kathleen's having a rough go of it this
afternoon. Bill Reinbold called while you were on the way over. He's at the
house, giving her something for the pain." He looked down to his desk,
shuffled some papers.

"Anything I
can do?"

"No,” he
answered, looking up with watery eyes. "I'll see you in the morning.

Leaving the office,
I headed for my rental car.

"They're
forecasting snow flurries by midnight, Mr. Leicester,” Sergeant Bowers said, as
I passed his desk.

Shaking my head,
I shuddered, but made no comment.

I did not notice
the cutting wind, or the icy, stinging rain while walking to the car. My
thoughts were on Kathleen Chamberlain. Slamming the car door, I started the
engine. Only fools and little children think there is any fairness in this
world. I pounded my fist on the steering wheel.

Driving back to
the Navigator Inn, I passed old houses with pointed roofs crouched low to the
ground, hunched under the weight of a hundred years and a heavy sky. The
streets were empty and hollow, echoing the sound of the car's engine. Parking
in the back, near the entrance to the elevator, I sat for a moment watching the
wipers scrapping pelting sleet and snow from the glass. Rainbow patterns spread
across the windshield as the rubber blades lost the battle with the build up of
road grime.

Deciding to pick
up a newspaper, I went around to the lobby. Henry was sitting behind the desk
watching a game show on a tiny, color television.

"Mr.
Leicester,” he said without moving his eyes from the set. "Nasty
afternoon. Hope you hadn't planned on dining with us this evening?"

The thought had
crossed my mind.

"Mabel
closed early,” Henry said. "No guests, except you, in the hotel. No sense
in staying open. Hope you won't complain?"

"No, but I
would take a cup of that coffee you've got brewing,” I said, smelling the fresh
aroma.

"Sure,” he
nodded, still watching the game show. "Be about three more minutes."

"How about
some change so I can get a paper?" I laid a dollar bill on the counter.

"The Grapes
of Wrath, you idiot,” Henry said, getting to his feet, answering the question
being asked the contestant on the game show.

He turned off
the set.

"Jeopardy...boy,
I would love to get on that show. I could make a fortune."

Henry looked at
the dollar bill on the counter. He picked it up and handed it back to me.
"Sorry, no papers left. They only deliver six a day. You can have mine,
I've finished with it. I keep the crossword puzzle, though” he said defiantly,
grinning.

"Thanks,” I
said, taking the paper and folding it up. "I'm not smart enough for the
crossword puzzles. Put me down for a wake-up call at seven in the morning. I'd
appreciate it."

"Done."
He made a notation on a pad. "I talked with the maid today. She promised
to be more careful."

Shaking my head,
I did not reply.

"Oh, by the
way,” Henry said, as I took a styrofoam cup of the fresh brewed coffee and
started walking away. "Here's a couple of phone calls for you, and an
envelope."

He handed me the
messages.

Attaching a tiny
piece of clear tape to my hotel room door this morning before leaving, I found
it undisturbed. Throwing the newspaper on the table, I sat down on the bed and
went over the messages.

One of the calls
was from Guy Robbins. Dialing his office number, his secretary said he had gone
for the day, took his boat out for a sail. Informing her I would call him back
tomorrow, I silently wished I was aboard Picaroon with him. The other call was
from Sandy. There was no answer at the Gallery. I would try her later.

My name was
hand-printed across the front of the small white envelope in bold, block
letters. There was no return address. Opening it, I took out the blue sheet of
paper. It read: 'What you don't use, you lose.'

I had wanted to
avoid this, but I had a vision of Kathleen Chamberlain, of death and dying, of
how short life can truly be, and of the few pleasures we truly have. Having
committed it to memory, I dialed the number Mabel had written on the restaurant
check.

Finding Mabel's
house was easy. Her directions were explicit. She met me at the door with a
warm hug, and a kiss on the cheek. A roaring fire blazed brightly in a wonderful
old stone hearth. The house was small, but neat and well furnished. It had the
feeling of being lived in.

"You like
wine?"

"Sure."

"Red or
white?"

"Whatever
you're having."

She went into
the kitchen. I could hear the tinkle of glass, a cork being pulled from a
bottle. It afforded me time to look around. The walls of the living room were
decorated with prints of the sea. A photograph on a small table over by a
window was of a handsome man in a wool sweater and a sailor's watch cap.
Chamberlain said that her husband was lost at sea.

Mabel returned
with two glasses filled with red wine and a small tray of cheese and crackers.

"Let's sit
on the couch in front of the fire." She indicated the small sofa.

We sipped the
wine, talked, and worked our way through those awkward first moments.

She was a plain
woman, hardworking, with a serious quality. My kind of person. We seemed to get
along well.

"More
wine?"

"Yes, thank
you."

She went to the
kitchen and brought back the bottle.

"Tell me
about Mabel,” I said, holding the wineglass up to the fire, admiring the ruby,
orange-tinged color.

She laughed out
loud. "Now there's an interesting subject for you. I was born here, live
here, and I'll probably die here."

She said it
without sarcasm.

"Any
children?"

"No
children,” she said, looking across my shoulder.

Getting up, she
walked over, picked up the photograph of the man, brought it back, and handed
it to me.

"My only
true love, my husband. The sea took him."

"I'm
sorry,” I said, holding the frame gently. "He looks like a fine man."

"Yes,” she
said, taking the photograph, looking at it as if for the first time. "He
was as good as they come. I loved him deeply."

She put the
photograph back in its place.

Smiling as she
sat back down, she said, "That's my life story; Billy, love, tragedy,
work. I've gotten used to it, but I'll never forget him. Now, let's hear about
you."

We drank more
wine, talked.

"You have
any leads as to who killed those two men?"

"We're
working on it."

"Rumor is
that there was a lot of money missing. Is that true?"

"Where did
you hear something like that?" I asked more harshly than intended.

"In the
restaurant, I guess. Why are you so defensive? I'm merely curious."

Sitting my
wineglass on the small table beside the couch, I said, "I get like this
when I'm on a case, especially when someone who's not involved asks questions
about things which only the investigators should know."

"Then there
is a lot of money missing?"

"I didn't
say that, and I'd still like to know where you heard it?"

"I told
you...the restaurant." She folded her legs under and looked at me.

"What about
Henry? You talk to him about the murders?"

"It's a
small town, Jay." She got up and walked to the fireplace and put on two
sticks of wood. "Everybody's talking about the murders. When something
like this happens in Rockland, it's all anybody talks about. It could be one of
our own involved."

We were two
strangers trying to get to know one another. This evening was awkward enough
without the investigation interfering. The situation was becoming uncomfortable.

"Discussing
your work is making you uneasy. Let's change the subject to something
pleasant." She came and set beside me, putting her hand on my shoulder.
"Tell me about living in the south?"

Her intuition surprised
me, and pleased me. My trust in people was shaky, at best. I wanted her to be
genuine, to not be a part of these horrible murders. I also had to be extremely
careful.

The rest of the
evening went well, and shortly after midnight, I said, "It's getting late.
You have to get up early. Maybe I'd better go, let you get some rest."

When we stood,
Mabel moved up close to me, held my hand, looked deep into my eyes. "You
don't have to go. You can stay, if you want."

*
* *

Slipping in the
rear entrance, I arrived in my room just as the phone rang. It was Henry with
my seven a.m. wake up call. He had not seen me come in.

"Thanks, Henry.
I appreciate it."

Listening for
sarcasm in his voice, I could not hear any. Maybe last night would not make
headlines in the local paper.

After a long,
stinging, hot shower, I shaved and dressed. Chamberlain would be here shortly.
I hoped I could stay awake today. There was not much sleep in some quarters
last night.

Walking into the
lobby, I saw Chamberlain drive up.

"How's Kathleen?"
I asked, as he entered the front door.

"Bill put
her in the hospital last night,” he answered, looking a lot more tired than I
felt. "He said she was dehydrated, needed some IV fluids."

"Look,
J.L., we can put this Monhegan thing off for a couple of days. There's no rush.
You look like you need some rest. Go, stay with Kathleen. We'll go across some
other time."

"No. Bill's
taking care of her. He assured me it's nothing critical, just part of the
process. Let's get some breakfast."

Henry, standing
behind the registration desk, said the restaurant wasn't open. Mabel had
called; she was running a little late. "Funny,” he said, scratching his
head. "First time she's been late since coming to work here."

"Come on,”
Chamberlain said, motioning me out the front door. "We'll stop somewhere
on the way to Port Clyde. There is plenty of time."

We got in
Chamberlain's car and headed south. He drove a different route, keeping close
to the bay. It was new and unfamiliar country to me, but was as pleasant as
traveling along the state highways.

The sky was
still overcast. Low, rain-laden clouds blew swiftly out of the north,
indicating frontal passage had already occurred. I estimated the wind at twenty
knots. The rain had stopped. Here and there breaks appeared in the overcast. If
the wind didn't lay as Chamberlain predicted, it would be a rough crossing to
Monhegan Island. Assuming that young Captain Barstein decided to go and wasn't
somewhere counting four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cold cash.

When we got to
the small hamlet of Tenant's Harbor, J.L. pulled into the East Wind Inn.

"They serve
a breakfast buffet here that I think you'll like,” he said as we parked under a
huge water oak.

"I've eaten
lunch here a couple of times." Unbuckling by seat belt, I got out and
looked across the ruffled bay at the small island.

"I know,”
J.L. said. "Once with Sandy, once alone."

I had forgotten
about Betty Anders, spry, ex-nurse, and mother of the owner of the East Wind
Inn. Kathleen Chamberlain's cousin.

"Is there anything
that goes on in this county that you don't know about?" I asked, as we
walked upon the porch.

"Not much,”
he answered, opening the screen door. "I even know where you spent last
night."

This stopped me
in my tracks. "But how..."

Chamberlain kept
on walking. Over his shoulder he said, "Officer Bowers, our Desk Sergeant,
has been trying for two years to get Mabel to go out with him. She won't give him
the time of day."

Chamberlain
walked on into the dinning room. Hurrying, I tried to catch up.

"He drives
by her house on his way home every night. Seems your car was still there when
he came back to work this morning. He's heartbroken."

Small towns...

*
* *

We arrived at
the Port Clyde dock at ten-thirty. The ferry, the MOMA C., was tied alongside
the pier. Several people milled around, waiting to board. As Chamberlain
predicted, the wind was down to around ten knots. Overcast skies had given way
to a scattered-to-broken layer. The temperature was still cool, but warming. I
brought my old, worn, leather flight jacket. Chamberlain suggested I bring it,
as the temperature on the island might be a bit cool. I followed his advice.