Murder on the Cliff (23 page)

“Couldn’t he have bought her back at the auction?”

Lew shook his head. “He didn’t have the money. What family money he’d once had he pissed away—pardon the expression—a long time ago. I shouldn’t say he pissed it away. He spent a lot on restoring
Bastet
. But when you don’t have any income, it goes pretty fast, especially when …”

“When what?” prompted Charlotte.

“I’m trying to think of how to say this without sounding cruel. My grandmother from down South would have described him as somebody who doesn’t have a lot of hay in his barn.”

Charlotte laughed. “My grandmother from New York City would have said his elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.”

“There you are, the country mouse and the city mouse. He’s never had to have much hay in his barn. Everything’s always been handed to him on a silver platter. Billy’s an innocent; he just wants everybody to like him. He’s the guy who picks up the tab for a round of drinks, he’s the guy who invests in a buddy’s half-assed business scheme.”

“He’s the guy whose sister buys out his inheritance for a fraction of its value.” She explained what Paul had told her.

“Exactly,” said Lew. “He planned to go into the charter business. He got his captain’s license and everything. It would have been the perfect job for him: he loves sailing, he loves to party. But when he lost
Bastet
, that idea was out the window. Newport is full of people like him: people who come from a moneyed background, but don’t have the cash to support that lifestyle anymore, and don’t have wits or ambition enough to earn a real living …”

“It sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“We’re old school chums. St. George’s.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. St. George’s School was an exclusive Episcopalian prep school in neighboring Middle-town—not the kind of school someone like Lew would be likely to attend.

“I know,” he said, smiling. “I’m not your usual St. George’s type.” He explained that he had gone there on a church scholarship for altar boys. He nodded at Trinity Church, the elegant old Episcopal church overlooking the harbor. “My family’s been members of Trinity for generations. Anyway,” he continued, “I’m not worried about Billy. People like Billy lead charmed lives. They’re like cats; they always manage to land on their feet. I always thought
Bastet
was a fitting name for a boat owned by Billy.”

“What does it mean?”

“Bastet was the Egyptian cat goddess: a fertility goddess, I think. Billy always said that the boat had her own mind, like a cat, that he never felt as if he really owned her. After she was sold, he told me that he liked to think of her as having wandered off for a while. ‘She’ll be back,’ he predicted. ‘Cats always return to the keeper who takes the best care of them.’ From what I understand, she was mistreated by the city of Baltimore, which couldn’t afford to keep her up. She’s since been sold again.”

“She looks like she’s in pretty good shape now.”

Lew nodded in agreement.

“What’s she doing here?” asked Charlotte.

“I would guess she’s up here for the Classic Yacht Regatta later this summer. But I could be wrong.” He smiled speculatively. “Maybe she’s come back to her favorite keeper.”

A few minutes later they were sitting in the restaurant, which was located in an imposing eighteenth-century mansion that had been moved in the seventies from the historic section of town to the wharf. Originally a ship captain’s house, it was a warren of small dining rooms with low ceilings and uneven plank floors. The rooms were decorated with antique maps and prints of sailing ships. The dining area to which they were shown was on a third-floor deck with a fine view of the harbor through latticework screens. In the harbor, a forest of masts bobbed against the pale pink of the evening sky; boats had sailed in from far and wide for the fireworks display. A warm breeze blew in through the screens, and the candle on the table flickered behind its hurricane glass. Charlotte felt as if she were in an old plantation house in the Caribbean rather than on a busy tourist wharf in New England.

“Fine job,” said Charlotte as she sat down on a green faux bamboo chair: the color scheme was green and salmon pink. “How did you manage to get a table on such short notice?” The restaurants on the waterfront were mobbed with people who wanted to watch the fireworks with a drink in their hands.

“I know the maître d’,” he explained. “This place isn’t my usual habitat. It’s a hangout for the summer colonists.” He nodded at the bar, where a small group of tanned and handsome young men were talking about the rescue of a sailor who’d been swept overboard in a race. “But I thought you’d like it.”

“I do,” said Charlotte, “Actually I think I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago.” To avoid being recognized, she sat with her back to the dining room. She didn’t want to be interrupted by autograph hounds. She looked around her. “Quite a place for a ship captain’s house.”

“It was a lucrative business,” said Lew. “The triangle trade. Slaves were brought from Africa to the Caribbean to work the sugar cane plantations, sugar and molasses were shipped from the Caribbean to Newport and processed into rum, and rum was shipped to Europe. That’s how people like me ended up here.”

A waiter took their drink orders—a Manhattan for Charlotte and a beer for Lew. “Okay, what have you got?” asked Lew once the waiter had left.

Charlotte went on to explain what she had found out: about Paul’s long acquaintance with Okichi-
mago
, about his decision to make her his heir, and about the rage he must have felt when she turned him down. To her, he seemed to be the only suspect with even a halfway credible motive. “I think it’s in the can, as we used to say in Hollywood.”

“Sounds like it,” said Lew. He stroked his mustache pensively. “I don’t think there’s any urgency—he’s not likely to take off for parts unknown—but I’ll speak to the chief tonight and let him know what you’ve found out.”

But even as she spoke, Charlotte wondered. She knew that a film was never in the can when you thought it was. There were always scenes to reshoot and loose ends to tie up. Depending on audience reaction to the sneak previews, there could even be a new ending. Or a couple of new endings. Sometimes it never got in the can, period.

“What have the police found out?” she asked.

“Nothing. There were no prints on the comb, the mirror, or the cup. Whoever put them next to the brazier either wore gloves or wiped the prints. Lots of prints at the temple and at the main house, but we don’t know who they belong to yet. Everyone who was there that night will have to be fingerprinted. We’re working on that; you’ll probably get a call tomorrow.”

“Did they talk with the housekeeper?”

“Yes. She didn’t have anything to report. Except for one thing. She said the burglar alarm was turned on when she arrived in the morning. The police went over the entire house with her, looking for anything unusual. There were no signs of forced entry. Which also points to Paul Harris. Ironically, it’s Harris who’s making all the arrangements about the body.”

“Even in death, he’s still running her life,” said Charlotte. “What arrangements is he making?”

“Everyone in Japan is cremated. Not enough room to bury them, I gather. Rather than shipping the body back to Japan to be cremated, he’s arranged for it to be done here and for the ashes to be sent back to Japan. There’s going to be a Shinto funeral ceremony in a few weeks; it’s going to be held at the Temple of Great Repose in Shimoda.”

Ironic was right, thought Charlotte. Having the ceremony at the Temple of the Great Repose would enhance the legend; never mind that he’d killed her in a replica of that temple.

The waiter returned to take Charlotte’s dinner order. The menu was classic French. She ordered
côtellettes d’agneau grillées
, a. k. a. grilled lamb chops. The lamb, game, and vegetables were raised on the restaurant’s own farm, the menu said.

“A good choice,” said a voice from behind.

It was Billy Montgomery. Tanned and handsome, he was wearing a V-necked, cable-knit tennis sweater and a light blue shirt in which he looked like he should be at the helm of his lovely old boat.

“Hey, Lew! How ya doin’, man?” he said as he pounded Lew on the back. “Nice to see you, Miss Graham.” He extended his hand to Charlotte and then turned back to Lew. “I like those spectacles,” he said, referring to Lew’s wire-rimmed glasses. “Very distinguished.”

“Thanks,” said Lew. “Have to keep up the image.”

“I didn’t know you two knew one another. What brings you here tonight?”

“Miss Graham’s been helping the police with the investigation into Okichi-
mago
’s death,” Lew explained. “She’s been filling me in on what she’s found out. She’s been talking with the guests at the geisha party.”

“You didn’t talk with me,” Billy protested.

“I didn’t get to you yet,” she said. “Did you see anything unusual?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Went right home. Didn’t see anyone. Actually, I didn’t go right home. I went to the Marriott. I was meeting a young lady there. I didn’t see anyone at Shimoda, but I did see someone at the Marriott.”

“Who was that?” asked Charlotte.

He smiled a mischievous smile. Although he and Marianne looked nothing alike—he was blond and blue-eyed, while she was dark and brown-eyes—they shared the same devilish grin. “Cousin Paul,” he replied.

“You saw Paul Harris at the Marriott?”

“Yes, I saw Paul Harris at the Marriott.” He nodded knowingly. “I thought so. He told you he was at home in bed, right? Didn’t want Nadine to find out about his little peccadillo.”

“Tell us more.”

“From beginning to end?”

Charlotte nodded.

“Well, I was sailing a Finnish Swan in the Volvo Newport Regatta that day. The regular crew was a man short. Anyway, our boat came in first and the owner offered to treat the crew to a lobster dinner at the Marriott. I couldn’t go because of cousin Paul’s geisha party. But I agreed to meet this nice young lady I met during the race there after the party.”

“And?” Charlotte prompted.

“And, there we were having a drink in the lounge. The lounge at the Marriott is in the middle of this big open space.” He waved his arms. “You know, with the rooms all around.”

“An atrium,” said Lew.

“Yeah, that’s what they call it, an atrium. Anyway, we were sitting in the lounge in the atrium and I see cousin Paul walk into the lobby and get into the glass elevator. He takes the glass elevator up to the fourth or fifth floor. Then he walks down the corridor and knocks on the door of one of the rooms, and a woman lets him in. If you want to conduct an affair in secret, I don’t recommend the Marriott as the place to do it.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Sure I’m sure. Would I mistake my own cousin?”

“Did he see you?”

“I doubt it. He seemed in a big hurry to see his lady friend. He was carrying a bottle in a box; it looked like champagne.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, a little after twelve.” He snapped his fingers in mock dismay. “Oh darn, now I’ve gone and gotten cousin Paul into trouble.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s more likely that you’ve gotten him out of trouble,” said Charlotte.

“Thanks, Billy,” said Lew. “I see
Bastet
is in town. I told Miss Graham that maybe she was returning to her former keeper.”

“You know,” said Billy, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile, “you may be right.” He turned to Charlotte: “If you ever want any more information, you know where to find me.” He nodded at the small bar off the dining room where the cluster of tanned young men were talking.

Charlotte was relieved at Billy’s news: Paul was off the hook. Her sense of order was restored; someone she liked was no longer a murder suspect.

“Paul’s relationship with Nadine has been on the skids for a while,” Lew explained once Billy was out of earshot. “Nadine told Toni that she thought he was having an affair with a young woman from his firm. Would he have had time to kill Okichi-
mago
and get to the Marriott by midnight?”

“I don’t think so,” said Charlotte. “Not if he dropped Shawn off at The Waves first. Especially not if he stopped to buy a bottle of champagne.” She sighed. “I guess it’s not in the can, after all.”

After her dinner, Charlotte had gone straight to bed and slept for a solid twelve hours. She had awakened with a dream fresh in her mind. It was
the
dream. Once again, she had to choose between the white temple and the baroque cathedral. But she had awakened before she could make the choice. Over breakfast in the dining room—the small one that sat six, not the big one that sat twenty-four—Charlotte filled Connie and Spalding in on what had happened: her suspicion of Paul, and his alibi. For Spalding, her story only confirmed his opinion that the whole Harris family was oversexed. “At least we’re not repressed, dear,” was Connie’s teasing retort. Charlotte felt badly that she had not seen more of her gracious host and hostess, but they had been busy too. Keeping the Black Ships Festival on an even keel after Okichi-
mago
’s death hadn’t been an easy job. After breakfast, Charlotte attended church with Spalding and Connie at Trinity, where Lew had served as altar boy. It was a lovely old colonial church, whose gleaming white spire was the focal point of the waterfront. Trinity was famed for its architecture, which was based on Sir Christopher Wren’s English churches, and its age: built in 1726, it was one of the oldest Episcopal churches in the country. Among the other worshipers were Lew and Toni, and their three handsome children: two boys and an adorable little girl. Charlotte tried to concentrate on the sermon, which the priest delivered from Trinity’s famous wineglass pulpit, but all she could think about was the murder. Billy’s revelation that he had seen Paul Harris at the Marriott meant that she had to start all over. If it were true, it explained Paul’s grief: the one piece of the puzzle that hadn’t fit. She should have known. When a piece didn’t fit, it was usually a sign that the solution wasn’t right. To Paul, losing Okichi-
mago
had been like losing a daughter. She thought back to her conversation with Spalding about
giri
. Maybe Paul had thought, like Keiko, that Okichi-
mago
had been upset at the geisha party because she had turned down his generous offer. Maybe he had even thought she committed suicide to atone for wronging her benefactor. If so, it would explain why he had been so relieved to hear that her death wasn’t a suicide.