On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) (3 page)

“May I see it?” I asked.

Ichabod gulped and hurried for a large desk. The drawers squeaked as he opened them. Usually I don’t make snap judgments about people but I had the feeling that this man was vulnerable and frightened. He looked fine on the outside, but was bruised deep down at the core. I wondered fleetingly what had happened to him. I had been a newspaper woman most of my adult life and the curiosity hadn’t gone away just because I sold the newspaper and moved to a private island.

“Yes. It’s here somewhere. I—ah! Here we go.” He pulled out a ridiculously large tome wrapped in yellowed linen. His long fingers were gentle as he
unwrapped
the parcel.

The book was bound not in leather but in much rubbed velvet that was now a purplish-brown but had probably started off blue. Some of the photo albums in the attic had similar bindings. He turned the tome carefully so it faced me and let me do the honor of opening it.

As expected, the ink was old and faded—all the local books I had read from this era were in equally eye-straining condition and I had come to expect it, though not enjoy it. Not all books from the eighteenth century are in such bad circumstances and I had to wonder if the problem was with the ink that had been used in the region.

I made no attempt to read beyond the first page which had a date of December 17, 1796 at the top.

“The cover isn’t original. The first binding is under the velvet. It’s some kind of eel skin maybe. But it’s badly shattered. I don’t think this book was created by a professional bookbinder.”

Percival had really checked the book over. I would need to do the same.

“What do I owe you for the volume?” I asked.

“Nothing.
Kelvin already paid for it.” He reached out hesitantly and I knew that he didn’t want to part with the book. “Let me wrap that for you. We wouldn’t want it getting wet on the way home.”

“Thank you,” I said and watched as he lovingly swaddled the book back in its aged linen and then wrapped it in waxed butcher paper which he tied with twine until it looked like the world’s largest pack of pork chops.

I waited until he was done and then asked the question that was foremost on my mind.

“So, you haven’t heard from Kelvin since then, have you?” Percival looked blank.
“Or from anyone else in my family?”

“Uh—no.
I wasn’t aware that there was anyone else in your family.” But he colored again, a telltale stain that probably meant he was lying or embarrassed.
Or maybe both.
“In any event, I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

I nodded, smiling and accepting the package. I took a shot in the dark.

“There is rumor that I have cousins scattered here and there. It would be nice to meet them,” I added. But this only made Ichabod look frightened. “Well, thank you again for keeping the book safe for me. It means a lot that Kelvin set it aside especially.”

“You’re welcome.” Percival swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing so violently that he looked like a pelican swallowing a large fish. “I hope you’ll stop in again.”

“I will. Like my great-grandfather, I am very fond of books.” I reached out for the package which he surrendered with visible reluctance. “Please contact me if anything else of interest should come your way.”

I didn’t specify what I might be interested in.

“I will.”

“Goodbye,” I said and then pulled open the front door. Bells jangled harshly.

“Goodbye,” he managed, along with an insincere smile.

That was one unhappy and possibly frightened man. I couldn’t tell why though. Was it because I had mentioned that there could be more Wendovers about? Or did it have something to do with the book?

I sighed. I could see long nights ahead of me squinting my way through yet another poorly written tome.

Bryson was waiting when I came out of the bookshop. I wasn’t entirely surprised to see him, but I did feel a tiny bit of annoyance. It’s the downside of being the most notorious fish in a very small pond.

He read my expression accurately and said with a touch of amusement, “Harris heard you were in town and asked me to pick you up.”

I raised an eyebrow and awaited an explanation.

“The exhumation order came through and he thought you might want to be present when we open the tomb. Do you want to be present?” This time his eyebrow went up.

It was come to Jesus time. Did I want to be there when they opened Kelvin’s tomb? Actually, yes, I did. I felt a little ill and my palms were sweating, but I needed to be there.

“Of course.
Lead on, Macduff.”

“Let me help you with that package. It looks heavy.”

Though my first impulse was to resist, I handed the book over like it meant nothing.

The road to the old cemetery starts out paved but soon turns to gravel. The headstones are mostly old, belonging to families that have died out. The mausoleums are set back in a copse of wind-bent cedars. Winters are hard on the coast and all but the newest of headstones looked worn out. There were no park benches, no winding paths lined with daffodils and hyacinths. Comforts of the flesh were a mortal sin. Everything was straight and narrow like the gates to heaven.

“Bleak, isn’t it?” Bryson said.

“Very.”

I saw no recent evidence of people mourning—no flowers, no willow, no offerings on any grave, not even leftover evergreens from Christmas. Some places thrived on neglect. This wasn’t one of them.

Did no one come here anymore?

There were no angels or saints standing guard in the cemetery either.
Only plain gray stones with hard, factual words about the dead.
Did people find more comfort in statistics than angels and saints? I guess our ancestors were closer to death than we are and didn’t glamorize it the way the Victorians did. They knew that life was transient, death was enduring, and you needed to prepare for it with fear of God in your heart instead of sentimental whimsy. It would make for bleak Memorial Day visits though.

Frankly, I had to wonder how the Wendovers had gotten into this cemetery, being known sinners. But then Little Goose and the surrounding islands are detached from the reality that most people know and understand. Inexplicable things happen here and accommodations were made for my family.

“Ready?” Bryson asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

I left my package in the car. Bryson offered me his arm and I took it since the ground was uneven with tree roots and I was suddenly chilled by the knowledge of what we were doing. I am a modern, rational person, but some things are still taboo.
Like disturbing the dead.
A dark shade crept upon my soul and I shivered with spiritual cold. Part of me wanted to stop the proceedings and it was hard to stay mute.

The family mausoleum is one of three and they stand like Calvary on the small manmade hill. Only I didn’t feel that Jesus was there with us, so could take no comfort in this symbolic trinity. Death is indeed a democracy. It makes us all equal. It makes us all nothing.

Harris was already there in his dark cashmere coat, along with the various official persons needed at an occasion like this. It looked almost like a funeral; certainly there was as much upset in the air as at any service, but we lacked a religious officiant. I was doubtful of there being a prayer for disinterment anyway.

We stood outside the mausoleum in the bleak gray of stones and lowered clouds, but the interior of the tomb was brightly lit and I could see what the caretaker and the forensic officer were doing when I looked their way. I feared for a moment that I might faint again, but instead of dizziness I felt fire ants crawling under my skin and advancing on my bowels. There was a growing expectation of calamity, though I couldn’t guess the specifics of the disaster. And I did not think that I was alone in this. Harris and Bryson both seemed tense, braced for something.

I didn’t like this fey feeling. Precognition has always seemed like more of a curse than a gift. I have read about people with the Sight and did not want the worry about the future to become a parasite living off my nervous system as it did with those who could “see.” Knowing the future—especially future ills—is no gift.

Bryson watched me from the corner of his eye and I was touched that he and Harris cared so much about how I was feeling. There was nothing they could do though to make the moment any more bearable. There is a cost to the living when someone dies and I had to pay it in emotional currency. That’s how it is when dealing with the dead, and negative emotion is coin of the realm.

At least I was dressed for the occasion. My wardrobe does not run to fashion exotica and bright colors. My blacks and grays were somber enough for any funeral.

“You could wait in the car until they are ready,” Harris murmured.

Though I had wanted to catch a glimpse of the dead man’s face, thinking that maybe there would be some genetic recognition to tell me if it was truly Kelvin in there, I found that I had to look away from the scene when they began working on the tomb. Curiosity was being overcome by dread and I didn’t think I would be able to look at him after all.

“No, I’m fine.” Walking to the car would be too much effort, and I might not find the fortitude to come back to the tomb a second time.

The sky turned the saddest shade of gray as we waited and it began to mist. Not rain exactly, but a steady drip that covered the sound of the ocean’s distant whispers and made everything damp and clammy. Everyone stared at me as the fog thickened, perhaps believing that my grief was causing the sudden climate change. It wasn’t my desires though that affected the weather, because my wishes were running more toward something warm and Mediterranean. Sometimes weather is just weather.

Harris put up his umbrella and moved closer. It did more in thought than in deed to keep us dry, but I was still glad for the minor privacy it afforded us. Unwanted, a tear trickled from my eye. I was not mourning. It was just allergies, I told myself. But it added to the unhappy mood of our party and made Bryson uncomfortable.

Understanding my frame of mind, Harris put an arm around me and I leaned my head against his shoulder and half closed my eyes. I still find myself occasionally grappling with unforeseen emotions when Kelvin’s name comes up unexpectedly in company, and I am usually annoyed that I feel anything for a man I never knew. I am fine with honoring the islanders’ memory of him, but I resent the odd moments of regret and curiosity that drift by my subconscious, mostly when I am alone with one of his journals or inventions. Lots of people never met their great-grandparents. Why should I feel especially cheated?

Bryson figured. I knew that he would have preferred that I not witness the event, but he didn’t say anything and Harris didn’t tell me that I needn’t have come. This was family. In Harris’ mind this meant that I should be present. Though it went against my usual sensibilities, I had to agree with Harris. Something was going to happen and I needed to be there, no matter how horrible.

The cemetery’s caretaker was clearly more upset than anyone and felt the need to explain this obvious fact to Bryson, who, from his bored expression, had heard it all before.

I could understand his upset. The rumormongers were probably having a field day. I was grateful that respect—or fear—of the Wendover name was keeping the ghouls away.

“My family has lived here for centuries and we have never had a scandal like this!
Never!”

I didn’t snort, but I very much doubted this claim. Every household has some blot on the old family escutcheon. The ones who don’t know this are ignorant or delusional.

“It’s ready to open,” the one called
Shotz
said after he and another man I hadn’t been introduced to pulled out the black casket and laid it on the floor, away from the mortar and brick rubble that had fallen while they opened the right niche.

The
cherrywood
coffins rested in recessed hollows with bricked up doorways barely large enough to accommodate a casket. I made note that styles had changed over time. The current doorway had been done in a standard staggered pattern while the older ones were laid in something that looked like herringbone. I supposed there was some cultural tradition for this—for bricking the doorways up at all—but I didn’t enquire. The situation was quite morbid enough.

Shotz
stepped back and allowed the police technician to open the coffin. The bolts unscrewed in a counterclockwise direction—widdershins, it’s called.

“They’re broken. Something happened to the locks,” I heard someone whisper.

“Get it open,”
Shotz
said. Then there was a squeal of hinges.

I was still looking at the sad sky when I heard general gasping and felt Harris start.

“My God,” Harris muttered and this blasphemy had me looking down though at that point I had no desire whatsoever to see my great-grandfather’s body, especially if its state was so shocking the others were disturbed.

I needn’t have worried. There was nothing there to see. The white lining was stained a putrid brown in the outline of where the corpse had lain, but the body was gone.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Bryson said in a flat voice that held no surprise at all.

The sun was setting, coloring the retreating clouds with the colors of a summer fruit salad. Though a bit numb, I still appreciated the view as I walked up the hill, listening to shushing waves and enjoying the shallow waters as they whispered over the rocks. I was alone at last and happy to be that way. Let Harris and Bryson figure things out for the official report. I was done for the day, emotionally and physically spent.

The mail was waiting with Ben along with a wiggly Barney. None of my correspondence was interesting except a postcard from Brandy. My friend, the social carnivore, seemed to have put the matter of the body on the beach behind her and was having a great time husband hunting in New York.