On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (23 page)

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“No,” Edith watched the man leap across rocks. At this rate he would reach Whale Cove in thirty or forty minutes.

The man’s hat blew back. The top of his forehead was pink from the sun.

“Daggett will know.”

“Yes,” Edith raised her glasses.

Daggett had disappeared.

T
HE
glint of light recurred. Eric Dawson dipped his oars, tentatively this time, and stared at the cliff. The dory rolled smoothly beneath him, no longer shooting toward the weir.

“What’s this now?”

The sound of his own voice steadied the thumping in Eric’s ears. His pulse slowed with the boat. He wasn’t sure whether the pounding in his ears was due to exertion or to the sudden start he experienced at the sight of someone on Seven Days Work. Someone in the very place the man had gone off the cliff. Someone wearing red.

Whoever it was was gone now. The glint was the last of him. Sunlight hitting glass or metal, Eric couldn’t tell.

Someone else, someone in white, was running along the beach. That’s all right, Eric grinned, I’d run too this time of day with the tide coming in. Odd place to be, though, Eric watched the man zigzag.

Eric pulled on the oars. The dory shot forward and Eric’s mind with it. He had to get on with his work. How he had let Lizzie talk him into going to The Anchorage tonight when there was so much to do, Eric shook his head. He didn’t understand himself sometimes. And that idiot Little John was certain to cause a row.

A gull lifted to Eric’s right, and far up the coast, three seals leapt in unison.

The oars creaked. Eric pulled for the weir.

“T
HEN
your understanding,” Daggett’s eyes narrowed, he made his words deliberate, his voice uninflected, “is that your husband boarded the S. S. Grand Manan this morning for Eastport?”

“That is what I said, Constable Daggett,” Maggie Johnson arched an eyebrow and tipped her head in Daggett’s direction. She was again ensconced in the arbor swing behind Swallowtail, this time with Jean Jameson beside her. Both women held drinks.

“Never fear, Constable Daggett,” Sam Jameson sat opposite, crossing his legs at the knee, “Matt will be back this evening. I’m sure whatever it is can wait.”

“Yes,” Jameson’s wife drained her glass, “what possible hurry could there be? It’s not as though any of us are actually leaving this island. Matt has simply gone to a great deal of trouble to find good telephone connections with the States.”

“Telephone service on this island is a joke,” Maggie Johnson pushed at the ground with her foot.

“Can’t do business without good phones, you know.”

Daggett thought Jameson’s heartiness hollow. Maggie Johnson rattled ice against the sides of her glass.

“Here, let me fix you another,” Jameson leapt to his feet, “there’s plenty of time before dinner.”

Jameson retrieved the women’s glasses and turned toward Daggett, an invitation in the lift of his brow.

“None for me.”

Jameson disappeared into the Inn.

Daggett’s breathing had returned to normal during the drive from Seven Days Work. He headed straight for Swallowtail in order to arrive before Johnson could reach his wife and friends. What would Johnson’s story be, Daggett pushed the accelerator as far down as he dared on the loose gravel of the road to The Whistle. At Tattons Corner, he actually spun the Chevrolet’s tires, and when he arrived at the Inn, he leapt from the car without shutting his door.

Johnson couldn’t possibly continue to pretend that he had gone to Eastport. But what did his wife or Jameson know of his plans? If Johnson intended to go to Eastport, why hadn’t he gone? If he never intended to go, then the whole thing was a dodge. But who was he dodging. And why.

Daggett thought his best chance for getting answers involved alerting no one to the urgency of his visit. Jameson’s trek for more drinks could prove troublesome if he happened to notice the driver’s door standing ajar on the Chevrolet. But Daggett couldn’t be bothered about that now. It was the whereabouts of Matthew Johnson Daggett cared about most. Jameson and the others either didn’t know or were pretending not to know about anything Johnson had done since he left them this morning.

It was all Daggett could do not to leap into the Chevrolet and spin away after Johnson. But where to look. And when he found Johnson, as eventually he would, what questions should he ask. What’s all this about Eastport? Why did you slip away from the S. S. Grand Manan? How did you spend the day? What were you doing on the beach? What did you put in your pocket? Why did you run? Yes, Daggett reached for his notebook and shifted his weight, when you saw me, why did you run. But Johnson was not there to give answers. Had he been? Could he be hiding now somewhere in the Inn? Daggett had no way of knowing. He turned back to Maggie Johnson.

“Tell me about the business your husband felt he had to conduct.”

“Business is business, Constable Daggett. It’s all one to me,” Maggie Johnson patted a yawn.

“Business is boring, don’t you think, Constable?” Jean Jameson pushed the swing away with her foot.

“I pay no attention to any of it,” Maggie Johnson leaned into the swing.

Daggett pressed forward, “When did your husband decide to make this trip?”

“During breakfast, I believe. We had nothing else planned for the day,” Maggie Johnson inspected her nails. Her hands lay idle in her lap.

“Who did you say your husband planned to call?”

“I have no idea,” Maggie Johnson found an imperfection. She rubbed the nail with her thumb.

“Come, Constable,” Jean Jameson ran her fingers through her hair, “what has any of this to do with the case you are investigating?”

B
Y
the time Willa changed into her shoes and the two of them raced down the trail to Whale Cove, Edith was able to catch only a glimpse of Mr. Johnson. He had almost reached Church Lane on the other side of the cove. He was no longer running but still set a swift pace.

Edith and Willa moved as fast as they dared across the rocky beach. Edith was glad the man had slowed. She had enough running the night before to last a very long while, and they didn’t want to catch Mr. Johnson, only keep him in sight.

Neither of them knew why it was important to chase after this fellow, but they were certain they should. Willa said as much lacing her shoes. Edith had simply cried, “Let’s go.” The expression on Daggett’s face had been enough.

The rough footing of Whale Cove demanded most of their attention, but Edith managed to see that the man did not, as she expected, turn right into North Head. Instead he slipped into the trees and headed up the trail toward Hole in the Wall. For a moment the man’s tennis whites flitted through the evergreens that wound in and out, rising above the shoreline with the trail.

“A
BSOLUTELY
,” it was Rob Feeney’s turn to frown. “I swear he was on board. I saw him with my own eyes,” Feeney shuffled his papers into a pile, then folded his hands and rested them on his desk. He glanced at his calendar and at his clock.

Daggett’s eyes followed Feeney’s. Ten after six. Feeney should have gone home over an hour ago. But he could keep his own time, he lived by himself.

“Couldn’t Johnson have gotten off after you saw him board?”

Feeney returned Daggett’s gaze, then let his eyes drift to Daggett’s collar and down onto his chest. Daggett knew that Feeney was not really seeing his collar or the buttons on his jacket. Feeney was looking again at the S. S. Grand Manan with Matthew Johnson on board.

“Well, I was busy,” Feeney looked Daggett in the eye again, “I suppose he could have slipped off when I wasn’t looking.”

The rise in Feeney’s voice made it almost a question. Daggett chose not to answer.

“No, that doesn’t make sense,” Feeney shook his head. “Why would he do that,” Feeney’s voice became insistent, “and why would his wife not know where he was?”

Daggett shrugged. Harvey Andrews had promised to send a boy over the minute Johnson turned up. Daggett glanced out the window. There was no one in sight.

“I’m sure Johnson didn’t know Richard Miller, the other fellow on board. Sure of it,” Feeney’s eyes rose to an area above Daggett’s head and began to trace the edges of schedules posted on the wall across from his desk.

Daggett watched Feeney think.

“Or the couple from Rose Cottage.”

The clock on Feeney’s desk said it would be forty-five minutes until the S. S. Grand Manan returned to its berth. Daggett wished he had help. An assistant, a sergeant. Almost anyone would do. It was not the first time in Daggett’s career that he experienced a need to be in three places at once or wanted someone with whom he could discuss the details of a case.

Daggett reached for his pipe, “Tell me again what he wore.”

“Tennis whites. Canvas shoes. One of those backpacks the hikers use. A red shirt.”

“A red shirt? He was wearing it?”

“Had it slung over his shoulder.”

“And what exactly did he say?”

“Nice day for a boat ride, something like that,” Feeney shrugged and took a pack of Players out of the center drawer of his desk. He extracted a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and struck a match.

“I don’t know what I’m waiting for,” Daggett turned in his chair and stretched out his legs. He crossed them at the ankle, “He won’t be on board, you know.”

Feeney exhaled.

“D
AMN YOU
, D
AGGETT
, let go of me,” Little John tried to shake free. “You have no right to do this.”

Little John’s bluster was no match for Daggett, but Daggett loosened his grip only long enough to push Little John into the Chevrolet and latch onto Jocko.

“You leave that man alone,” Eva McDaniels shrilled from behind, “and don’t you dare touch that boy.”

Daggett shoved Jocko into the back seat of his car and placed his puppy in his lap.

At that moment Daggett felt several sharp tugs at his sleeve. He turned just in time to see Eva McDaniels’ paisley clad arm fling itself high in the air and realized with astonishment that the satchel Eva carried for a purse was about to crash into the right side of his head. Daggett deflected the blow.

“What a woman,” Little John howled.

“Try something like that again, Eva McDaniels, and I’ll consider your purse a weapon and lock you up, too,” Daggett roared and brandished the shotgun he had just wrested from Little John.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Eva took a step back.

“Now see here,” Little John tried to push open the car door.

Daggett held it shut.

“Don’t worry, folks,” Little John puffed himself up to address his remarks to the small audience he had assembled, “not even Daggett would throw a lady into jail.”

The McDaniels, the Tinsleys, and Daisy Edwards were arranged in a semicircle before the open car window. Daggett wasn’t sure whether they just fell into that formation or meant to separate him from Eva McDaniels, who had lost none of her fierceness.

Finally, Dan McDaniels put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm. Eva continued to glare at Daggett, but her anger had lost its edge.

“Take her home now, Dan. Please,” Daggett stood braced against the car door. “And the rest of you folks, you leave now, too.”

“Dan, Eva,” Jason Tinsley offered, backing up to unlock the door to his pharmacy, “why don’t you come in and sit down.” He turned to the others, “You can all come. Soda’s on the house.”

Little John pushed against the car door.

“Not you,” Daggett blocked Little John. “You sit right there and listen to what I say.”

Daggett stepped away from the car, his voice pitched to the small crowd.

“There will be no vigilante justice,” Daggett shook Little John’s shotgun, “not while I am constable on this island.”

“Fine constable you are,” Little John growled, “arresting an honest man and letting the guilty go free.”

Daggett swung back around, “No posse. No shotguns. No nonsense.” He shook the gun again.

Little John turned forward, deliberately ignoring the constable.

Daggett waited until he heard the pharmacy door close behind him, then he popped the shells out of Little John’s gun and walked around the car. He tossed the empty gun onto the back seat next to Jocko and put the shells in his pocket.

Jocko took up no room at all. Only his eyes looked large in the back of the car. Daggett slid behind the wheel, opened the choke, and hit the accelerator with his foot. The Chevrolet coughed.

“That woman is a bat out of Hades,” Little John hissed between clenched teeth.

“Stop that,” Daggett eased in the choke.

“She’s guilty as sin,” the hiss continued. “Killed him because she hates men.”

The engine sputtered and died.

“It’s plain as day. But you, you’re doing nothing about it,” Little John’s eyes darted left. His mustache twitched violently.

Daggett pressed the starter. It whirred.

“Why don’t you arrest her?”

“Little John,” Daggett’s voice threatened.

“Everyone knows she wears men’s clothes and lopes through the woods. Jodhpurs and shirts,” Little John sneered.

Daggett began an audible count. The engine had flooded.