Final Settlement (13 page)

Bitsy and Tina shook their heads in amazement.

“I don’t know if I’d want to remember all that crap,” Tina said.

“Me neither.” Bitsy shuddered.

“Some people with superior autobiographical memory can recall events from twenty or thirty years back,” Darby said. “Chief, did Lorraine ever say exactly what she could remember?”

Chief Dupont leaned forward. In a low voice he said, “She told me she could remember every single day of her life from the time she was a child of ten.” His eyes met Darby’s as the ferry prepared to dock. “My personal theory? I think she remembered some things other people wanted left forgotten.”

_____

Alcott Bridges lived on Manatuck Harbor in a shingled turn-of-the-century cottage with a ten-foot-wide porch that wrapped nearly around the house. A smaller, second-floor porch ran across the front, along with three jaunty gables topped by a small widow’s walk. Views of the bay and a distant Hurricane Harbor were unbroken this time of year, but Darby noted that even in the summer there would be nothing save a few low-growing beach roses between the house and the spectacular view.

She and Tina walked up the frozen driveway, past the porch’s round columns, to the door. “Some place, huh?” Tina asked as she rapped on the wide porch window.

“The setting is gorgeous and I love the exterior. Has the inside been updated?”

“We’ll find out.” Tina knocked again. “Mr. Bridges?”

They watched as the artist shuffled toward them. He wore a crimson silk dressing gown belted at the waist over what Darby assumed were his pajamas. His sparse hair was gray and disheveled; his face lined and sporting a week’s worth of stubble. He yanked open the door with surprising force and jerked his balding head.

“Don’t let all the heat out, ladies! Come in, come in.” He pushed the door shut behind them and waved an arm in the direction of a room. “Go ahead into the parlor.” Darby heard the swishing sounds of slippers on the wood floors. She glanced at his feet and saw elaborately beaded leather moccasins.

Alcott Bridges regarded his visitors with sunken eyes ringed by deep circles. “Well?”

Tina cleared her throat. “Mr. Bridges, I’m Tina Ames from Near & Farr Realty, and this is my associate, Darby Farr. You phoned us about selling your house.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “So I did,” he said gruffly. “I suppose I should show you around.”

He proceeded to lead Tina and Darby through the house, stopping before a locked door off the kitchen. He produced a key and used it with practiced rapidity.

“My studio,” he said, pushing open the door and allowing them to enter. Darby and Tina stepped inside.

It was a remarkable space: an old post and beam barn with large wooden timbers, and walls painted a clean white, reminiscent of a gallery. On the pristine surfaces hung paintings of every shape and size—portraits, mostly, bearing the unmistakable style of the great oil painter.

“Sweet Lord,” said Tina. “You are one talented man.”

Alcott Bridges managed a small grin. “One tries.”

The center of the studio was dominated by a large easel, upon which rested a canvas half-painted with a modern landscape of varying geometric shapes. Darby edged closer to the work, deciphering the gray cubes and blocks, finally recognizing the subject.

“The Manatuck Breakwater,” she breathed, remembering that the curator in Westerly had mentioned the artist’s new direction.

“Yes.” He inclined his head slightly, as if critiquing his own work, and then turned to Darby.

“You have a good eye. Not everyone sees what is not readily apparent.”

“Thank you.” She noticed shapes on the Breakwater and pointed to one. “Those are people, right?”

He nodded. “Strolling that thing is quite the local pursuit, I’m afraid.”

Darby turned to him. “Can you see the Breakwater from your house?”

“From the upstairs bedrooms, of course. But I drive over there when I want to paint.”

“Were you there on Wednesday?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Now that it is so cold I work from photographs.” He shuffled to a table and handed her several prints. “This is what I use. The rest—” he tapped his head, “is up here.”

Tina moved closer to look at the photographs. “Did you hear about the girl who fell off the Breakwater? Her body was found yesterday.”

“No. How distressing.” Alcott Bridges picked up a stray paint brush and placed it inside a glass jar holding dozens more. Absently he asked, “Not a local, I hope?”

“Actually, yes,” Darby said. “She was a woman I went to high school with. She worked for the Manatuck Police Department. Her name was Lorraine Delvecchio.”

Alcott Bridges’s whole body stiffened. He turned jerkily toward a tattered armchair and stumbled slowly toward it. “You say she’s dead?” The old man sank into the chair.

“Yes,” Tina answered. She turned a puzzled face to Darby, her auburn eyebrows raised in surprise.

Darby was watching the artist intently. “I’m sorry for this shocking news. You must have known Lorraine.”

He frowned, knitting the bushy brows together. “No, no. I didn’t know the girl.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m just—well, I’m horrified to hear such a terrible thing has happened. Negative emotions—someone causing harm to someone else—you see, I don’t want them to be a part of my art.”

He raised his head and gave Darby a pointed look. “As an artist, I feel things much more acutely than others.” He looked down at the floor. “So distressing.” A moment later he lifted his face, fixing Darby with a stare from his watery eyes. “Perhaps you’d better go.”

Tina and Darby exchanged looks.

“Okay, Mr. Bridges,” Tina said. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’ll check back with you next week to talk about a listing price, but if you have any questions, you can call me before that.”

He nodded once. Darby and Tina moved quietly out of the studio, through the kitchen, and out the porch door.

“Did you see how he acted when you said Lorraine’s name?” Tina pushed the porch door shut and faced her friend. “He sure as hell knew that girl. What a load of bull, saying he’s an artist and feels things more than other people. He’s not telling us the truth.”

“I agree.” Darby opened the car door and slid inside. “He definitely had an intense reaction to hearing she was dead, and he didn’t assume it was an accident, either. I couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or taken aback, could you?”

“Relieved,” Tina said, with a firm nod of her head. “I’m good at reading body language, and that man welcomed the news. He did everything but jump up and down and shout ‘Hallelujah!’”

“Okay, let’s say you’re right, Tina. The question then becomes, why?”

“Do you think it has anything to do with this super-duper memory thing?”

“Superior biographical memory? I don’t know. The Chief certainly thinks it’s what got Lorraine killed.” She turned to her friend, now headed toward the ferry office. “I wish we could get into Lorraine’s house and poke around. Any ideas?”

“Darby Farr!” Tina huffed. “I don’t believe you need to ask that question.” She swiveled toward Darby, her blue eyes piercing. “Let me remind you that we are real estate agents. Poking around in people’s houses? That’s what we do best.”

SEVEN

B
ITSY
C
ARMICHAEL SIPPED A
diet soda and waited. The waitress had come by twice already, and both times she’d put her off. “I’m waiting for my husband,” she’d replied. It had a comforting ring to it.

She looked at her nails and sighed. The polish was chipping and would look like hell for the wedding. She’d see if there was a beauty parlor on the island, or get back over here in the morning.

The waitress looked toward the restaurant’s front door and smiled brightly. Sure enough, it was Charles, sliding into the booth and apologizing for making her wait.

“Give us just a minute,” she said to the waitress. To Charles she gave an expectant look. “Did you find out what you needed?”

“No.” He closed his menu. “Do you know what you want?”

She nodded. The waitress again materialized, pad and pen in hand. “Cheeseburger with coleslaw,” Bitsy ordered. “And another diet soda.”

“I’ll have the low-fat special.” He said it regretfully, and then sighed. “Here’s the thing, Bitsy. Detective Robichaud is totally sympathetic to what I’m saying, but he thinks everything’s got an explanation. The scrapes on Lorraine’s hands, the trauma to her skull—all that could have happened when she first fell in. There is no evidence that anyone else had anything to do with her death.”

“What about her memory?”

Another sigh. “He thinks it’s interesting, but not a motive for murder.” He sipped a glass of ice water. “Maybe it’s time for me to let this go.”

She waited a moment, and then shared an idea that had been percolating all morning.

“I have an idea. Let’s get another puppy. Another Golden like Aggie.”

“There’s no dog like Aggie, you know that.” He said it sharply, picturing the canine that had been his companion all those years he was alone. Suddenly his mood changed and he grinned. “Remember when she chewed Derek’s math book? I had to call the school and convince them that yes, the dog really had eaten his homework.”

Bitsy giggled. “What about that flowered armchair from your mother? I’ll never forget when you sat in it and it just kind of collapsed. Aggie had eaten out all the stuffing from inside, right?”

He nodded. The waitress arrived with their lunches and plunked down the plates.

Charles surveyed his cottage cheese, sliced fruit, and shredded lettuce. The scent of Bitsy’s burger was tantalizing, and he watched as she picked it up and took a juicy bite.

He sighed. Could he truly let this thing with Lorraine go? Accept that perhaps she had indeed suffered a fatal fall off the Breakwater, and that it had been entirely her own doing?

Resolutely he picked up his fork and scooped a bite of cottage cheese. He didn’t like it, neither his lunch nor the conclusion about Lorraine’s death, but it was just the way it was.

_____

Lorraine Delvecchio had lived on a quiet, dead-end street in Manatuck, in an area that had once been attractive single-family homes and was now mostly dilapidated rentals. Of the six or so houses on the street, hers looked the most cared for, although several of the shutters were sagging and the exterior badly needed repainting.

Tina pulled into the driveway and parked the SUV. “Let’s take a look.”

“How are we getting in?”

“Leave it to me, my friend. Leave it to me.” She scurried out of the car and approached a side door of the house. Darby watched as she tried the door, found it to be locked, and then pulled something from her pocket. After several moments, the door swung open.

Tina turned a triumphant face to Darby and beckoned with a gloved hand.

Darby hurried up to the house and joined Tina inside a small entryway with a steep back staircase. Coat hooks lined the floral-wallpapered walls. She thought briefly of asking her friend how she’d opened the door so quickly, but decided that she didn’t really want to know.

“It’s freezing in here,” Tina said. “Her pipes are gonna burst, if they haven’t already.”

Darby nodded. “I’ll check the oil gauge before we leave and make sure she didn’t run out of fuel.” She entered the living room and looked around. It was neat, with several framed photos of ocean scenes and a shelf of perfectly lined-up books, most of which were suspense and mystery paperbacks.

Tina had wandered to the front of the house. “Hey, look at this,” she yelled.

Darby joined her before a pantry in the kitchen. Straight rows of canned goods were aligned in rigid formation, standing at attention like soldiers in a regiment. Boxes of cereal, dried fruit, and pasta were similarly arranged.

“A little bit of a neat freak, huh?” Tina closed the pantry door.

“I read that many people with Lorraine’s memory condition have obsessive-compulsive disorder,” Darby said. “I suppose it makes sense when you think of how highly organized their brains are.”

“Not exactly like mine,” Tina snorted, hugging her jacket around her thin frame. “Let’s get a move on. I’m getting way too cold to hang out much longer.”

Darby agreed. The two mounted the front stairs, peeking in Lorraine’s blue and yellow bedroom, her tidy bathroom, and a small room used as an office containing a desk, laptop computer, and a small wooden chair.

“I wish we could take the computer,” Tina said.

Darby opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a small red spiral-bound notebook, no bigger than a deck of cards. She flipped through the pages and saw groups of words and numbers. Some of the numbers had dollar signs.

“Tina, take a look,” Darby said. “She was keeping track of expenditures or something.” There were dates in the upper margins.

“Stick it in your pocket,” Tina said, shivering. “It’s not like it’s something of value like that computer, right? It’s not gonna do Lorraine any good staying here in her desk and will just get tossed by whomever gets stuck cleaning this place out.” She opened another drawer and exhaled. “Bingo!”