Final Settlement (9 page)

Yeah, just like me
, he thought. The words of the Manatuck detective still rang in his ears: Lorraine Delvecchio’s death was being ruled an accident. If Alison Dyer had indeed seen someone on the Breakwater, it had been an innocent walker, nothing to do with Lorraine. He wanted to challenge the guy, call him an idiot; anything but what he’d done, which was to thank him for the information and hang up. He turned to Bitsy, all the fight gone out of him.

“I wish you’d stop calling me Chuck,” he said, his voice weary. “Can’t you just call me Charles, like everyone else?”

“But you’ve always been my Chuckie!” She pouted, put the nail file down, and crossed the kitchen to where he sat at the table with his coffee. He caught the scent of her perfume as she perched on the chair next to him and gave a naughty smile.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how I used to say, ‘Chuckie, wuckie,’ to you, at the same time that I—”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he sputtered, his face a deepening red. “It’s just that—ah, heck, Bitsy, I don’t get it. What are you doing here? You took off fifteen years ago, without even a postcard to tell me you were still alive. And now you waltz back in this house like you own the place?”

“Well, I sort of do own the place. Half of it anyway.” She stood up, all five-feet-two inches of her. Had she really been that short when she was younger? Charles remembered her as being taller, but then she probably remembered him as thinner, stronger, and younger looking, too.

“Look, if I could, believe me, I’d settle up with you right now.” He sighed, took a gulp of coffee. It was times like this that he missed his old golden retriever the most.

She went to the coffeepot, turned, and carefully poured a stream of coffee into his cup. “I don’t want your money.” The pot landed back on the burner with a thunk.

“Then what the heck do you want?”

“A second chance. I know I don’t deserve it, and I know most men would kick me right out the door. But you’re a decent guy. That’s why I fell in love with you all those years ago. You’re one of the good guys, Chuck.” She sighed. “I mean,
Charles
. What I’m trying to say is, I’m hoping you’ll let me stay.”

He turned his full-on cop stare at her, wondering if she was giving him a line of bull. But her round face was contrite, the blue eyes open, without any trace of derision.

“Why, Bitsy? Why did you go?” It was the question he had asked himself over and over like some sort of tortuous mantra, until it seemed crazy to even wonder any more.

She bit her lip. It was not a habit he remembered, but he found it endearing, along with the punk-style blonde haircut, so different from the chin-length cut she’d sported fifteen years ago.

“I felt like I had a big pillow over my face and couldn’t breathe,” she whispered, the pink lips moving slowly. “You had your job, the kids were in school, and there was nothing for me to do on this dinky island. One day I imagined myself running away. After that, it was all I could think about. The idea started festering inside me, until finally I just took off.” She looked down at her hands, twisted the little sparkly watch on her wrist. “I was wrong, and I knew it as soon as I left. I wanted to come back. But I was too proud. So I stayed, and the time went by. Before I knew it, fifteen years were gone.” She bit her lip. “I figured that I needed to come back and make amends.” She paused and looked away. “Before it was too late.”

He gave a harsh chuckle. “What, do you know something I don’t about my imminent demise?”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that.” Bitsy rose and crossed the vinyl floor, her slippers making little whooshing noises as she walked. An image of the chapel at the Nevada Cancer Center flitted through her mind. She saw the teak benches and chairs with their checkered cushions, including the one closest to the window where she had often sat. Bitsy willed the memory away.

She opened the refrigerator and took out an egg carton. “Is it so crazy for two people who were once in love to give it another shot?” She began cracking eggs into a bowl, the noise a staccato counterpoint to her question. “ ’Cause I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

She paused and turned toward him. “I’m making an omelet, if it’s okay with you. I seem to recall it was one of your favorites?”

He nodded, thinking quickly of his cholesterol, and then not giving a damn. He’d tell her later, much later, about the fake eggs, low-fat cheese, and heart-healthy margarine dotting his refrigerator’s shelves. In the meantime, he sat back in his chair and watched in amazement as his wayward wife cooked them both breakfast.

_____

With Tina gone, hopefully to patch things up with Donny, Darby found herself ready to tackle some much needed repairs to the old farmhouse. The previous tenant, a single mom with a young daughter, had heard “scratching” sounds coming from the attic, and Darby suspected that some enterprising squirrels were making the empty space their home.

Dressed in her new down coat with a snug wool hat over her head and thick gloves on her hands, Darby climbed the wooden stairs to the attic. Although the temperature was numbing, the scent of the dusty old space was familiar. As a young child, she’d found the uppermost reaches of the farmhouse fascinating. Filled with boxes of her father’s high school memorabilia, stacks of vinyl record albums, holiday decorations, discarded toys, paperbacks, and a steamer trunk from her grandparents, the attic was a silent haven of interesting items, a place where the young girl could explore and escape.

Now the space was empty. Any treasures from the past had disappeared, banished to the landfill, no doubt, by Jane Farr. She’d sold the house during her niece Darby’s self-imposed exile from the island, and then, in a fit of remorse that still surprised Darby, bought it back again years later.

Darby switched on a powerful flashlight and peered into the eaves. Her gaze swept with the beam over the cracked floorboards, searching for signs of rodent activity. A little pile of debris below the window caught her eye, and she moved toward it cautiously, the old boards creaking under her weight.

It was a small mound of broken acorns. Darby noted a nearby window, missing a half a pane of glass, and the oak branch just a jump away from the sill. So a squirrel had been stashing food for the winter within the attic. Had he also moved in?

Crouching to see into the corner, Darby let the beam of light move slowly along the eaves. She saw nothing at first, and then a shape emerged, tucked way back and practically out of sight.

Darby took in a quick breath, wondering whether she was about to encounter a rabid roommate?

She removed her new coat, lay down on her stomach, and began belly crawling into the space, careful not to lift her head. The attic roof was studded with ancient nails, and Darby remembered their prick from childhood encounters.

She reached out with a gloved hand, gingerly touching the object, hoping it was not a squirrel, dead or alive. Her fingers probed something hard, and rectangular shaped—some sort of box. Darby pulled it toward her and began scooting backward, out of the eaves.

Ouch!
Something sharp grazed her scalp. She winced, thankful that her tetanus shots were up to date, and backed up slowly. Finally she stood.

Coated with a thick layer of dust, the box in her hands was approximately ten inches wide and five inches high, and weighed several pounds. It was painted a bright red, with small brass hinges.

Darby wiped away some of the layered dust. Charming scenes of snow-capped mountains, trees, and blue-roofed temples emerged from the grime.
Japan.
She felt a glimmer of excitement. This little box was Japanese.

Darby bent down and picked up her coat, cradling the box and the flashlight as well. She shivered, the single-digit temperatures of the attic finally having an effect.

She shuffled on stiff, cold, legs toward the stairs. Taking them slowly, she descended, closed the attic door, and headed for the bathroom. She placed the lacquered box on the countertop and turned on hot water for a shower. She wanted to open the box—just for a quick peek—and yet she was frozen to her core.

And then she saw the blood.

FIVE

W
HOOSH!

Bitsy Carmichael raised the patchwork quilt up into the air and let it fall neatly onto the freshly made bed. She fluffed the two king-sized pillows, placed them at the headboard, picked up an empty water glass from a bedside table, and surveyed the room with satisfaction. As soon as Charles had left for the office, she’d scurried up the stairs to his room, tidied his closet and floor, and hung up several shirts and trousers. A quick pass with the vacuum cleaner and the space looked neat and orderly.

She placed the glass on a table by the stairs and entered the guest room. Bitsy was staying here (temporarily, she was sure) and the room was barely big enough for the twin bed, never mind her two suitcases. She took one and tried to shove it under the bed. No dice. She wheeled it into the hallway and jammed it into the linen closet, beneath a shelf piled with sets of frayed sheets. The other she took into Charles’s room where it slid easily under his bed.

She finished applying her makeup in the guest bathroom. Running her fingers through the spiky blonde haircut she’d adopted in Las Vegas, Bitsy thought about the day. She’d straighten up the kitchen, make a shopping list, and then go to the grocery store for a few items. She frowned. There was a problem with that scenario. She did not have a car.

A knock on the downstairs door made her jump. She swept her lips with a dusky plum shade, dabbed on a little perfume, and scrutinized her image in the glass. She looked good, especially for a woman in her mid—okay, it was actually
late
—fifties.

Bitsy heard another knock as she descended the stairs, drinking glass in hand. She peered out the living room window. A truck was in the driveway, the same truck that had transported her from the ferry dock to the house.

Donny Pease.

She flung open the door and there he was, wearing a red plaid woolen coat and a sheepish grin. She gave him a bright smile. “Come in, come in, Donny. Brrr! It feels even colder than yesterday.”

“Storm coming,” Donny noted. He gave a shy nod. “Be your first since you’ve been back in Maine.”

“You’re right,” she said, helping him out of his coat. “Let me fix you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about your wedding plans.”

Donny frowned. Tina had called and said she wanted to talk, but Donny wasn’t ready to capitulate to the strong-willed redhead. Let her think about it a few more hours, he thought. Let her imagine what it would be like to call off this wedding.

Bitsy made a little noise with her throat, bringing him back to the present.

“Here you go, sir,” she chirped. She was quite a bit cheerier than when he’d picked up her and her two zebra suitcases the day before.

“Thanks.” He sat down with the coffee and took a sip. Coming here had seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago, but now he wasn’t exactly sure what his plan had been.

“Did you work out there in Vegas?” His voice wavered a little and he blushed.

She did not seem to notice. “Waitressing. I had a few health problems and my nursing license lapsed, but I think I might see what I can do to get current again here.” She took a sip of coffee. “What about you, Donny? How do you stay busy?”

“Caretaking, mostly. I worked at the old Trimble place for years. Now there’s an Institute that owns the property and I work for them twice a week, keeping the old place up. The Inn has me do some maintenance work too, and then I have a water taxi business in the summer, bringing people back and forth who don’t want to bother with the ferry.”

“Good for you. And what about Tina?”

His face hardened a little. “She sells houses. I think this was one of the ones she was working on.”

“Really? I didn’t know Charles was going to sell.”

Donny squirmed. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter. Tell me about your wedding. Chuck—I mean, Charles—is looking forward to it.”

“It’s going to be a good time.”
Provided we go through with it
. He felt a surge of bravery. “Why don’t you come, Bitsy? Tina and I talked about it and she’d love to have you there.”

A total lie, as he and Tina had barely spoken since their argument, and she’d certainly never suggested inviting Bitsy. But what the heck? Tina had all kinds of people coming to the wedding, relatives plus new real estate clients, many of whom he’d never even met. Not that he cared to.

He gave Bitsy an expectant look. “Well? It’s tomorrow at one o’ clock at the Congregational Church.”

Bitsy smiled. She looked a lot like the young freshman girl he’d kissed after the homecoming dance, kissed and then cuddled, and then …

She tilted her head to the side like a curious seagull. “I’d love to come to your wedding, Donny. Just so happens I’m free.”

_____

Darby’s oval face was streaked with red rivulets of blood.

I’m ready for a Halloween party
, she thought, parting her sticky black hair with her fingers.
Or the title role in
Carrie
.
She touched her scalp. There it was: a gash just long and deep enough to bleed copiously. Nothing serious, but she would apply some antibiotic ointment after she showered.