Final Settlement (20 page)

Charles was humming a tune and stirring a pan of scrambled eggs when she entered.

“Good morning,” he said, handing her a cup of coffee with cream. “Thought I’d make us a little breakfast.”

“It smells delicious.” She nibbled a piece of bacon. “I’ll set the table.”

She took plates from the cabinet and set them on the table, moving a piece of paper with initials and various names. “What’s this?”

“Oh, something I’m working on,” he said. “Put it on the counter.”

“You seem to be in a good mood,” she observed.

“Yes, well, I think I figured something out and I’m feeling like the most clever police chief in Maine.”

“I see. Anything to do with Lorraine Delvecchio?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He scooped eggs onto her plate and placed the platter of bacon between them. He’d decided that the low-fat diet was fine for weekdays, but on weekends he could splurge. “Orange juice?”

She nodded. “Have you told Darby Farr about your discovery?”

“Not yet. I was thinking we could take the ferry over to Mana-tuck this morning. There’s someone I need to see, and then …” His smile was bashful.

“Yes?”

“Let’s pick out a puppy. I called the shelter and they have some young dogs looking for homes. What do you think?”

“It won’t be Aggie …”

“No dog can replace her,” he said firmly.

“You’re right. But it wouldn’t hurt to just look and see what they have, right Charlie?”

He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek. “Never hurts to look,” he agreed.

_____

Weak sunlight struggled through the windows of Darby’s bedroom, glinting off the brass hinges of the red lacquered box. Darby positioned it between them on the bed and opened it slowly, pulling out the silk kimono sash and draping it before Miles.

“Exquisite,” he said, propping himself up with one elbow and fingering the fabric with his other hand. “This was your mum’s?”

“Everything in this box belonged to her—at least that’s what I
think—except for this journal.” She handed it to Miles and watched as he leafed through the pages.

“So this Kenji translated it for you?”

“Not totally. But he told me that it was a record of my grand-father’s time in Manchukuo and that it showed he objected to what was happening.”

“The experiments on the innocent Chinese villagers … is that what you mean?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Kenji was here for only a short time, but he gave me the gist of what it says.”

“I understand. The important thing is that you now know your grandfather was a very unwilling participant.” He glanced at the end of the journal. “These notations here,” he pointed. “They look like formulas.” He flipped through a few more of the pages. “Okay, time to tell me how you met him.”

“Kenji? A series of strange coincidences, really. Hideki Kobay-ashi suggested he contact me, as did the curator of the art museum in Westerly who met him at a party.” She thought back to Terri Dodge’s words at the wedding.
Believe me, Darby, he came to that gathering alone.

She bit her lip. “There is one strange thing. Kenji told me he had a friend in Westerly, but Tina’s sister Terri insists he didn’t know a soul. I’m wondering if he lied to me.”

“Maybe he wanted to keep his friend’s identity quiet.” Miles gave her a little jab on the shoulder. “Maybe he’s gay.”

“You wish.” Darby thought fleetingly of Kenji’s kiss. She watched as Miles flipped to the back of the journal, studied the pages, then turned the book sideways and frowned.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” He pushed up on his forearms, his face taut. “Darby, did you look at this journal before you gave it to Kenji?”

“Yes. Why?”

He slid his finger against the binding. “At least one of the pages is gone.”

“What?”

“Look.” He pointed to a barely visible line. “That’s a cut from an extremely sharp blade, probably a razor. I’m positive that a page—maybe more than one—has been removed.”

Darby felt the blood draining from her face. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Darby got up and went into the tiny guest room. She opened a small medicine cabinet in the bathroom, remembering that there was an antique straight-edged razor on a shelf.

It was gone.

She swallowed and headed back to the bedroom.

“What is it?”

“Kenji. He may have taken part of my grandfather’s journal.” She told Miles about the missing razor and his face grew hard.

“I’m sure these are some sort of formulas, Darby.” He pointed at the numbers. “Kenji not only speaks Japanese, but he works in pharmaceuticals. Perhaps he understood what these formulas mean.”

Darby pictured Kenji standing at the window, frowning at his cell phone. Had he been attempting to send photographs of the journal before she’d entered the room? Had he then resorted to removing the pages with a razor?

“Miles, if these are formulas they could be extremely dangerous.” She grabbed her jeans and pulled them on. Her stomach was flopping and she felt slightly sick. “We’ve got to find out what’s going on, and fast.”

_____

Donny Pease sprinkled brown sugar atop his oatmeal, grabbed his spoon, and took a satisfying bite. What was it about getting hitched that could make a man famished? He polished off a few spoonfuls and took a swig of coffee. Tina was munching away on her Special K cereal, dialing Darby Farr with a long red fingernail.

“Tell her about the prime rib,” he suggested, wishing he had a few raisins to vary the oatmeal’s consistency. They’d eaten the night before at a family-run restaurant down the road where the special had been glistening hunks of prime rib, big as serving platters.

“I will,” she promised, leaning back in the plastic chair.

Donny looked around the breakfast room, a beige box with a few fake ferns and a machine that dispensed milk and juice. Styrofoam bowls were heaped next to plastic drinking glasses and Styrofoam coffee cups, along with baskets containing sweeteners, fake creamer, and those little sticks for stirring. The only hot dish had been the oatmeal; the only other breakfast choices cold cereal and packaged donuts.

Okay, so this motel, located just over the border in Canada, wasn’t anything to write home about, but Tina had assured him that it was just fine because the inn they were staying at in Nova Scotia was on the fancy side.

Donny heard her chirp a hello to Darby and relay the news they’d just received about Alcott Bridges’s death.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” she said. She held her hand over the mouthpiece. “Darby and Miles already know about Alcott, because they were the ones who found him! Imagine that?”

Donny could imagine it, and didn’t exactly want to. He’d had his share of finding dead bodies on Hurricane Harbor, thank you very much.

Tina asked Darby to call Alcott’s lawyer. “He represents the estate, and says he wants to get the house on the market by March.”

She listened to Darby, twirling a red curl as she waited. “I know it’s kind of soon. But Alcott was eighty years old, so it’s not like it’s a surprise.” She picked up her spoon. “Darby, I’ll just die if that horrible Babette gets the listing. Will you scoot on over to see the lawyer as soon as you can?”

Darby must have said yes, because Tina sighed happily. She described the delicious prime rib while pushing her cereal around in her bowl in an absentminded way. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “What? You mean the FBI guy?”

Donny waited, his heart beating a little harder, until Tina finally hung up the phone. “Donny, listen to this: that Kenji guy, the one who stayed overnight at Darby’s house? He might be a crook.” She told him about the journal and shuddered, her red curls bobbing with anger. “First those shoes and now this. What is this world coming to?”

He scooped the last of the oatmeal from the Styrofoam bowl and licked his plastic spoon. “Could’a told you he wasn’t any Boy Scout,” he said. After all, only two kinds of people went driving around in a Maine nor’easter: idiots, and desperate men who were up to no good.

_____

“The jail?” Bitsy Carmichael squealed, half in disgust, and half in delight. “I’ve never set foot in a jail.”

“Not even in your wild Vegas days?” Charles Dupont ruffled her spiky blonde hair, amused by her excitement at the prospect of visiting the Manatuck County Correctional Facility, otherwise known as the jail.

Bitsy thought back. One particularly wild night had taken her to the sheriff’s office, but that was about it. “Nope—never.”

“Then this will be a first.” He parked the car and pointed at the door. “That’s where we go in. We’ll have to see how far you can come with me. The prisoner may or may not want to see both of us.”

Bitsy raised her eyebrows. Surely a man hard up for female company was going to want to see her! She gave a sweet smile. “I’ll be as charming as possible, Charlie.”

They crossed the plowed parking lot, Bitsy stepping gingerly in her pink fur-lined boots. She wore her leopard coat and pink hoop earrings, frosty pink lipstick, and furry white gloves.

“Charlie?” She stopped in the middle of the lot, her hands on her leopard-lined hips. “Are you happy I came back to Maine?”

He pursed his lips. Why she was choosing to ask him this question now in the parking lot of the jail was a mystery. “Yeah, I am.” He knew that she was the same woman who’d abandoned him before, and that she might take off again, without warning, just as she had fifteen years earlier. And yet he was still glad for the time, glad for her company, glad to watch her prance across the parking lot in her ridiculous, wonderful getup.

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. A small smile crept across her face.

“Me, too,” she said, linking her arm with one of his. “I mean, when would I ever get to escort a handsome police chief into a jail?”

They’d reached the entrance, a big, metal door painted olive drab. Charles pulled it open. Inside, a uniformed guard sat at a table, flipping through a cooking magazine. He glanced up and quickly dipped his head in greeting. “Good to see you, Chief.”

“Thanks. Evan, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” The man blushed. He was little more than a boy, really, maybe twenty or so years old. “Who are you here to see?”

“Leonard Marcus.”

The man looked at a computer screen. “He’s in B. You know how to get there?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He placed a hand on the small of Bitsy’s back and steered her toward a door. “Thanks, Evan.”

A loud buzzer sounded, followed by a hollow clanking sound, and Chief Dupont pushed open the door. Bitsy trotted behind him, her heart beginning to pound.

The corridor was long and dim, devoid of any windows except for several small skylights at the top of the halls. Another uniformed man stood inside the corridor, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet.

“Help you?” He seemed surprised to see them.

“I’m Charles Dupont, Chief of Police for Hurricane Harbor. This is my wife, Bitsy. We’re here to see Leonard Marcus.”

The guard nodded. “It’s not visiting hours, Chief, but we can make an exception for you.” He leafed through some papers on a clipboard and then looked up. “Marcus is right down the hallway. He doesn’t get many visitors.”

They walked down the corridor, following the guard, past cells where men sat on their bunks or at small desks. One man was doing one-handed push-ups, grunting with exertion every time he raised his amply-muscled body. Another stood by the cement block wall, book in hand, reciting poetry in calm, gentle tones, as if he were reading to a beloved grandchild.

“Hey, Walt.” The guard waved at the next inmate who was reclining on his bed. “Going to watch the basketball game later on?”

“You bet.”

“Augusta’s going to take it, you’ll see.”

The guard’s goading received a loud snort of derision from the prisoner. “No frickin’ way. You’ll see.”

The guard smiled at the Chief. “You follow the tournaments?”

Chief Dupont shrugged. “Of course. Can’t live in Maine and not pay attention to the February games.”

Bitsy thought back, remembering the fervor of the semifinal and state high school basketball championships. Droves of people filled gymnasiums across the state throughout the season, but especially in February at tournament time. Was it the freezing temperatures, lack of daylight hours, or scarcity of other activities that made the sporting events so popular? To say basketball was big was like saying lobsters had claws. Both were obvious, undeniable facts.

The trio stopped short before a dark cell. “Hey, Marcus!” called out the guard. “You got company.”

Bitsy peered into the cell, bracing herself for what she might see. The image of a thin, jittery drug addict with a murderous glint in his eye was what she expected; a vision conjured up from countless episodes of crime and courtroom dramas.

The prisoner rose from his bunk. He was tall and fit, with graying hair cut stylishly short. His face was lined, but handsome, with a trim mustache and well-groomed eyebrows.
He stole money from loads of people,
Bitsy reminded herself. And yet he was undeniably attractive.