Dark Water (18 page)

“Oh my God.”

The calendar dropped unnoticed onto the floor.

It wasn't Whitman's writing.

And in that moment, the killer knew that if anyone else saw the truth, it would be the end of everything.

There hadn't been a fire in the fireplace since the previous night, but one was soon started, and the killer began feeding the pages of the calendar into the flames until they were gone.

 

The next morning, Tiny Bartlett came running into her house, tossing her purse aside as she raced for the phone. She had a cell phone in her purse, but this wasn't the kind of news one passed on within earshot of others. She wanted the privacy of her room, with her feet up and a drink in her hand.

She poured a glass of red wine, then kicked off her shoes as she sat down on the sofa. Annabeth's number was on her speed dial. Since it was Saturday, Annabeth would be home instead of at work. She hit the number quickly, then took a sip of her wine and a deep, calming breath.

Annabeth answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Annabeth, it's me, Tiny. You'll never guess what I heard.”

“What?”

“Laura Hilliard left town.”

“No!”

“Yes. I heard it at the post office. Thelma was saying how Laura had left an address for her mail to be forwarded to.”

“But she just bought that fancy house on the lake and all.”

“I know. And that's not all,” Tiny said.

“Well tell me, girl, before I die of old age,” Annabeth said.

“Someone broke into Tony DeMarco's house. He went to the hospital in Portland by ambulance and came home the next day by helicopter! Can you believe it? Henry Taylor—he's one of the deputies, you know—said the thing set down right in the front yard.”

“Well, my Lord,” Annabeth gasped. “A helicopter.”

“And that's not all. That woman is back…the one who took Sarah away as a child.”

Annabeth shuddered. “That voodoo woman?”

“Oh, hush! I don't believe in such things. Do you?”

“I don't suppose,” Annabeth said. “But still, she's got eyes that look right through you.”

“That's because you were mean to Catherine Whitman,” Tiny said shortly. She didn't like having her word disputed.

“It wasn't my decision to remove her from the Fall Festival committee. I was just doing what I was told.”

“Never mind,” Tiny said. “What are you doing today? Want to go calling on Tony?”

“Do we dare?”

“Of course,” Tiny said. “I mean…he's a friend and he was injured. It's only neighborly to visit. I'll stop by the bakery and pick up a coffee cake.”

“I don't mind. Want to call the others?”

“I'll call Marcia. You call Moira.”

“Okay,” Annabeth said.

“We'll meet at Moira's and then go together.”

“At one?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Within an hour, the four women had a plan and an excuse to find out more about the gossip that was flying around their little town. Between the FBI investigating anyone with a bank account and the private investigator who Tony DeMarco had hired, Marmet was a riot just waiting to happen.

They arrived without calling ahead, afraid they would be told not to come, and pasted on smiles as they adjusted their hair and their baked goods and started toward the door, only to be met by an armed guard on the steps.

“We're friends of Mr. DeMarco,” Moira said. “I live just down the road.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to wait.”

He disappeared inside, leaving the four women on the steps with cake in their hands and indignation on their faces. Before they could break into a disagreeable hiss, the door opened again and Tony ushered them in.

“I didn't expect all this,” he said.

“Oh, I know we should have called,” Moira said, “but as soon as we heard what had happened to you, we just had to come pay our respects.”

“That's quite considerate of you, although the food was really unnecessary. I didn't die.”

“And thank goodness for that,” Tiny squeaked, and thrust a coffee cake into his hands. “Cinnamon raisin. It's my favorite.”

He looked at the offerings the others had brought and decided to get it done all at once.

“Maybe you'd all better follow me to the kitchen. We'll cut this coffee cake, have a cup of coffee, and you can say hello to Sarah in the bargain.”

“Oh…goody,” Tiny added. Last night she'd been spared most of Sarah's antagonism, but she was wary, just the same. Matching wits was something at which she sucked, and she hated being made to look foolish.

Sarah looked up from the roast she was preparing as they trooped into the kitchen single file.

“Well. I see we have visitors,” she said.

“We came to see how Tony was doing,” Moira said quickly, then offered her cheek for Sarah to kiss.

Sarah was saved from the task by waving her hands in front of Moira's face.

“I'm all messy,” she said. “Excuse me while I wash up.”

“Oh. Yes. Certainly,” Moira said, eyeing the rib roast Sarah had been stuffing. “This roast looks marvelous.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “I see you four have been busy, as well. You brought Tony some goodies.”

“They're just bakery goods,” Marcia said, and set her pie down on the counter. “Nothing as fancy as your homemade things, I'm sure.”

“It's the thought that counts,” Tony said, and seated the women at the kitchen table.

Sarah grinned to herself as she took plates from the cabinets, then handed them to Tony, who proceeded to serve the coffee cake. Never had she seen four women more out of place in a kitchen.

Tiny was wearing cashmere, and her wool coat had a mink collar. When Marcia took off her coat, Sarah would have bet a month's profits from Ma Chère that her clothes were pure silk. Annabeth was wearing a soft plum wool suit, while Moira's pantsuit was a slinky beige. Their hair was plastered down with hair spray, and their makeup made her think of war paint, rather than an adornment for their faces. Between the jewels in their ears and those on their fingers and around their necks, they could most likely have fed a small country for a year.

“Coffee, anyone?”

They nodded absently, completely absorbed in the story Tony was telling them of his encounter with the intruder.

Marcia was taking her second bite of cake and Annabeth was stirring sugar into her coffee when Lorett entered the kitchen. She eyed the women with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, regally waiting for an introduction.

Tony knew from their expressions that Lorett had arrived. It was all he could do not to laugh. He turned and held out his hand, quickly pulling Lorett into the fold.

“Everyone…this is Sarah's aunt Lorett Boudreaux, from New Orleans. Lorett, from your left, Tiny Bartlett, Marcia Farrell, Moira Blake and Annabeth Harold.”

“We're so pleased to meet you…again,” Tiny said, and then giggled for lack of anything else to say.

“So you've met before?” Tony asked.

“Years ago,” Lorett said. “At Catherine's funeral.”

“Aunt Lorett, would you care for a piece of cake?”

Lorett eyed the bakery confectionary askance and then shook her head once.

“I think not…but thank you, of course.”

Sarah turned away to keep from letting the women see her smile, but this was doing her more good than a full-page apology in the local paper would have. To see these four silly women put in their place by nothing more than a look was priceless. Before anyone could comment further, Tony's cell phone rang. He excused himself and answered it. It was Maury.

“Tony, here's the deal,” Maury said. “I've been running down this ‘moose' thing, trying to find anything in the area that had ‘moose' as part of the name. I'm on my way south right now. There's supposed to be an old tavern called the Moose and Duck on the way back to Portland, as well as a Christmas tree farm called Moose Tracks. Ever heard of them?”

“Actually, I have, though they don't mean anything special to me.”

“Right. Also, there was one other lead, but the old man I talked to couldn't remember where the place was, only that it had once existed. Ever heard of an old motel called Moose Landing?”

Tony frowned, trying to remember back twenty years, but nothing rang a bell.

“I haven't,” he said. “But hang on a minute, will you? There are some locals here who might be able to help.”

“You got it,” Maury said.

Tony returned to the kitchen. “Excuse me, ladies, but I'd like to pick your brains for a moment.”

“Certainly,” Annabeth said. “How can we help?”

“My private investigator is looking for an old motel called Moose Landing. Have any of you ever heard of it, or know where it is?”

Moira looked blank. Annabeth leaned over toward Marcia and whispered an aside. Tiny was blushing.

“What?” Tony asked.

“Well,” Tiny said, “it's not there anymore.”

“You mean it's gone?” Tony asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “I think the buildings are still there, but it closed down years ago. The owners lived behind one of the units. They might still be in residence, but I couldn't say for sure.”

Marcia punched Tiny on the arm and grinned.

“Tiny Bartlett, you sly thing. I can't believe you ever frequented the Landing. It's not quite up to your usual style.”

Tiny blushed a little brighter. “Well…when we were kids, Charlie and I had to have somewhere to meet. I mean, Daddy was so against our marriage and—”

“Never mind,” Tony said. “I don't need the details of your personal life. Just the location of the place.”

“Take the highway north out of Marmet and follow the signs to Canada. It's just across the border,” Marcia said.

Moira looked aghast. “You mean you've been there, too?”

“Oh, shut up, Moira,” Marcia said. “You know where it is. I even saw your car there once.”

“You didn't!” Moira gasped.

Marcia shrugged. “One that looked just like it, then, right down to that handicapped parking sticker on the windshield.”

Tony rolled his eyes at Sarah, as if to say, “This is now in your hands,” and stepped back into the hallway to pass the information on to Maury.

“Which way are you headed?” he asked, after the little man had taken down the information.

“South, I reckon. Then I'll check out this Landing place sometime early tomorrow.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You know it,” Maury said, and disconnected.

Tony dropped the phone back in his pocket and reentered the kitchen just as Annabeth and Tiny began to square off.

“Ladies,” Tony drawled, reminding them that they were supposed to be just that.

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Tiny giggled. Annabeth followed with a sigh. Marcia managed a wry grin. But Moira wasn't smiling. She drew her indignation about her like a winter coat and stood.

“I think it's time we were going,” she said. “After all, dear Tony was just released from the hospital, and here we are, letting him wait on us. It's a disgrace. That's what it is.”

She looked at Sarah disparagingly, as if laying the blame at her feet, then patted her on the cheek before heading to the door.

“Thank you for coming,” Sarah called.

Tony looked back at her and grinned. She was taunting them, and he knew it. He kept thinking about the years that lay ahead of them and knew that no matter what else, he would never be bored.

M
aury's visits to the Moose and Duck, as well as the Moose Tracks farm, turned up nothing that gave him a clue as to what had happened to Franklin Whitman.

It was almost nine o'clock in the evening when he pulled up at his motel room and parked. It was unhandy as hell not having a motel in Marmet. The only bed-and-breakfast was shut down because of some family illness. This little ski lodge above the Sugarloaf Mountain ski area had been the closest he could find. It was too early in the season for skiers, and except for the owners, Tom and Morris Fenton, he was the only resident. The dining room wasn't open after eight in the evening, which not only made for quiet nights, it was also a little boring.

Tomorrow he would check out Moose Landing. For now, he wanted nothing more than some food and a good night's sleep. He thought about Silk, living out there in that fine house with two of the best cooks he'd ever encountered. Some men had all the luck.

Sighing wearily, he got out of the car, picked up his box of rapidly cooling pizza and warming six-pack of beer, and hurried to his room.

 

It had been years since the killer had been anywhere near Moose Landing. The sign that had indicated where to turn was long gone, but the road was as familiar now as it had been then. Twice a month, the trip here had been vital in keeping sanity intact. So many plans had been made. So many dreams had been lived under the gray shake shingles of Cabin Ten.

When the killer finally pulled up at the motel and parked, the glare of headlights highlighted what the ensuing years had done to the Landing. Once, neat green shutters had adorned small white cabins, built in two long rows facing one another. Time had not been kind.

Although it was difficult to tell in the dark, it appeared as if three cabins had burned. What remained of the blackened two-by-four boards in the walls now pointed skyward like charred bones. The other cabins had sagging roofs, missing shutters and stoops, and were badly in need of paint. But in the dark, it was easy to look past the decay. For a moment time slid backward as memories came rushing back.

Then, suddenly, the porch light came on in the very first cabin, and an elderly man stepped out on the stoop.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The killer got out.

The old man peered into the night, trying to see past the headlights of the car, and saw nothing but a silhouette.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“No.”

“We ain't open for business no more,” the old man said.

The killer walked closer. If the old man's memory was as bad as these buildings, then this trip might not be necessary.

But fate was not on the old man's side.

The killer came closer, then closer still, until they were standing face-to-face. The old man squinted, then started to smile.

“Why…I know you, don't I?” he said.

The killer sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

The gunshot was sudden and loud. The old man's face crumpled in disbelief as he staggered backward into his little home. He died on the floor with his hands to his chest, as if trying to stem the rapid exit of his blood.

Angrily shoving the body the rest of the way into the cabin, the killer made a brief scan of the room, taking in the jumble of furniture and books and, finally, the old man.

“Sorry, but it was a matter of life and death…namely mine.”

Moments later, the car was gone and, the seclusion and silence that had always been the Landing's draw resumed.

 

It was just after eight in the morning when Maury Overstreet pulled up in front of what was left of Moose Landing. He didn't think much of his chances of finding anyone on the premises as he got out of the car, but he'd come this far. The least he could do was look around.

There was a porch light burning at the first little cabin. He took his coffee cup from the holder on the dash, dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and started to crush it with his shoe when he realized he was looking at fresh tracks, both tire and human.

Suddenly the hair rose on the back of his neck, and he set the cup down on the hood of the car and pulled his gun instead. There was no reason why such ordinary things should give him pause to worry, but he had survived Vietnam and the ensuing years because he'd listened to that inner voice, and he wasn't about to ignore it now.

“Hello the house,” he called.

No one answered.

He was on the small stoop when he saw the first of the blood. Then he looked up. There was more on the door. He stared at the doorknob, knowing that if he opened the door in the usual way, he might destroy any lingering prints. So he walked off the stoop and began circling the small cabin, looking for another way in. He found it almost immediately as he reached the back. A screened-in porch had been added, and both the screen and the door to the house were unlocked.

The moment he walked inside, he knew that death was there, too. The scent of someone's last meal had been fouled by the stench of feces and blood. His tiny body curled in on itself as he moved through the small kitchen, past the hodgepodge assortment of old furniture and books to where he could see into the living room.

And then he saw the body—an old man, lying in a pool of his own blood. A cat sat nearby, lapping at the blood, and before he thought, Maury grabbed it, raced through the kitchen and flung it outside. The cat squalled in protest as it hit the ground running, then hunkered under a bush, a few feet away. Once, in 'Nam, Maury and two of his buddies had come upon the partially eaten body of a young soldier lying in the mud. A half-dozen pigs had encircled what was left of the boy, grunting and tearing at his flesh.

They'd killed the pigs and then reclaimed the soldier's dog tags. It was all they'd been able to do. But Maury had never gotten over the sight. Now, seeing that cat had brought back the nightmare and all that accompanied it. Cursing in three languages with his head between his knees, Maury trembled and cursed until he was out of breath. He was still shaking when he finally reached for his phone.

He made the call to the authorities, then sat down to wait, knowing this was going to take time he hadn't planned. But he would do for the old man what they hadn't been able to do for that boy back in 'Nam. He would wait for someone to take away the body and make sure the tire tracks and footprints out front were not accidentally obscured before the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had time to investigate.

 

“And why were you here?” the Mountie asked Maury again, and again Maury took out his Private Investigator License and started explaining about the discovery of Franklin Whitman's body in Flagstaff Lake and the FBI who'd come to Marmet, as well as the attempt that had been made on Sarah Whitman's life.

“And you are working for Miss Whitman?” the Mountie asked.

“In a roundabout way,” Maury said. “I was hired by her friend, but on her behalf.”

“I see. And what was it you were trying to accomplish here…? Link some notation on a desk calendar to Moose Landing?”

“I don't know that this ‘moose' was the one mentioned, but I've been checking out every business, old and new, with ‘moose' as part of the name.”

“Who else knew you were doing this?”

Maury sighed. “About half of Marmet, maybe more.”

“That isn't going to be of much help,” the Mountie said.

“Tell me 'bout it,” Maury muttered, then looked up as someone in a blue minivan pulled up at the scene.

“That would be Mr. Havenworth's daughter, Claudia. Please excuse me a moment. There are a few more questions I'd like to ask before you leave.”

Maury nodded, in no hurry to leave, because then he would have to face the fact that his leads had come to a dead end.

He watched the woman receiving the news of her father's demise and regretted her sorrow as she covered her face and cried. A few moments later she was led into the building to identify the body, then back out again. She was pale and shaking as she stumbled to the side of the building and threw up.

Maury waited until she was a bit more herself then went to his car, took a flask of whiskey from the glove box and headed to the old picnic table where she was sitting. He thrust it in her face without introduction.

“Have a swig,” he said gruffly. “It'll help.”

To his surprise, she took the flask, and a drink, without even bothering to see who had offered it. Not until she handed it back did she look up.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Maury sat down beside her. “I'm the man who found the body,” he said. “He was your father?”

She nodded, her face still blotchy and swollen from crying.

Maury noted absently that she was one of those women who didn't cry pretty. Some did. Some didn't. She was one of the latter.

“Real sorry for your loss,” he added.

“I have to say, I'm not all that surprised that it happened, although we expected it years ago, while the Landing was in full swing. Not now. It's been over for years.”

It was the last thing Maury had expected her to say. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

She shrugged. “In the old days, the Landing was a hangout for people having affairs and the place where the local hookers took their men. You know. The family tried to get Dad to give it up more than once, but he liked the drama of it all, I think.”

Maury nodded. “Yeah, it can get that way for a fella. Sort of like an addiction, I guess.”

She looked at Maury more closely. “You're not a cop, are you?”

“Private investigator.”

“Why did you come here? Did you get lost?”

“No. I was looking for this place, only I got here a little too late.”

“Why on earth would anyone want to look here? There's nothing left.”

“Maybe memories…I wanted to ask your father some questions…see if he remembered the people who came here.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, he would have remembered, all right. He still talked about the regulars. I used to clean the rooms out here and—”

Maury grabbed her by the arm. “You worked here?”

She shrugged out of his grasp to blow her nose, then nodded.

“For more than ten years. My ex-husband left me with two babies to raise. I had no skills, and Dad let me set my own hours.”

“If I showed you some pictures, do you think you might recognize the faces?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I'll be right back.”

A few minutes later, Maury had the few pictures Sarah Whitman had given him spread out on the tabletop.

“Ever hear the name Franklin Whitman?” he asked.

Her mouth dropped. “Isn't that the name of the guy they fished out of Flagstaff Lake the other day?”

“Yes, but did you know him before?”

She frowned, then shook her head. “It doesn't ring any bells, other than what I just said.”

Maury pointed to the pictures. The first one was the one from Whitman's desk. It was of him, his wife Catherine, and Sarah as a child, wearing their Christmas outfits. The other was the group picture of the bank's employees, taken for the celebration of the seventy-fifth anniversary.

He slid the family picture toward her.

“Recognize anyone in this picture?”

She stared, finally shaking her head. “Nice family, though.”

Damn. Another dead end. He pushed the bank picture toward her.

“This is another picture of the same man. Here he's not smiling. Maybe he looks different to you.”

“Where is he?” she asked.

Maury pointed.

She leaned closer, peering intently at the face he indicated, then let her gaze slide to the others beside him. Suddenly she pointed.

“I recognize him!” she cried. “A regular. Used to see his car every couple of weeks.”

Maury picked up the picture, checking the names on the back against the faces, then frowned, trying to fit the pieces of this ever-widening puzzle together.

“I recognize her, too,” she said, tapping the glass on the front of the frame.

Maury turned the picture around.

“They were quite a couple in those days,” Claudia said.

“They came together?” Maury asked.

“No, in separate cars. And the reason I remember is they always came in the daytime, when I was at work. Not at night, like most of the others.”

“What time of day?” Maury asked.

“I'm not sure. It was so long ago. But it would have to be after ten and before three, because that's when I left work. I had to get home before my kids got out of school, you see.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Maury said, and then looked up at the woman. “You know…you might have just pointed out your father's killer.”