Clammed Up: A Maine Clambake Mystery Part 10

"I'll check with the arson investigators and see what I can do."

As I opened the station door to leave, I ran right into Chris Durand coming the other way.

"Julia! I'm so glad to see you."

"What're you doing here?"

He shrugged and stepped back so I could get outside.

"If you're here to plead for your cab, it probably won't get you anywhere. Binder doesn't care if he destroys your income, believe me."

"No, nothing like that."

As we moved outside into the sunlight, I noticed he looked pale and worried. I longed for his usual, "Hey, beautiful."

Chris c.o.c.ked his head toward the bench on the green across the street from the police station. We walked the short distance to it and sat down. He put his head in his hands and said, "I'm here for another interview."

"What? Why? I don't get this," I fumed. "I know the desk clerk at the Lighthouse saw Ray after you dropped him off."

"And then saw him leave again."

So Chris knew that, too.

"Anyway, I'm sure this meeting is about what they found in my cab."

"What could they have found in your cab?"

"For one thing, I'm sure they found that my cab's been cleaned. Very thoroughly. Recently."

"So what? So you keep a clean cab."

"Not that kind of cleaning. And for another, I'm pretty certain they found blood in my cab. Wilson's blood."

It was the second shocking revelation of the day, after Etienne's admission that he'd met Ray Wilson when he was alive. I wasn't sure how much more I could take. But I was also sure, deep in my bones, Chris hadn't murdered anyone. I was as certain of his innocence as I was of my own. "How did Ray's blood get in your cab?" I asked.

"Wilson was really drunk when I took him back to his hotel from Crowley's. He got sick in the back of my cab. I was angry. For one thing, it meant I couldn't pick up any more fares, and the bars were just closing. He'd cost me a bundle. So I drove to the marina, grabbed a bucket and some rags off my boat. It wasn't until I opened up the back door of the cab that I saw his vomit was full of blood. I held my breath and scrubbed. It was really bad, so I took all the seats out and scrubbed some more. Anyway, I'm sure that's what they want to talk to me about."

I flashed on the image of Ray Wilson hanging from the staircase, blood all down the front of his pink polo shirt. "Did you tell the police about the blood when they interviewed you before?"

Chris shook his head. "I never thought it would go this far. I thought they would catch whoever it was long before they got around to searching my cab. I guess I'll be telling them now. I know it looks bad. I feel like an idiot."

"What happened after Ray was sick?"

"Exactly what I told you the other day. Wilson got out of the cab and went into the Lighthouse Inn. Like a lot of drunks, getting sick seemed to make him feel better."

"Did Ray go into the hotel lobby with his shirt covered in blood?" Surely Clarice Kemp would have mentioned it, if that were the scuttleb.u.t.t.

"He had a windbreaker with him. He put it on. He was so drunk, he couldn't zip it up. I got out of the cab and helped him. The zipper stuck, and I caught my finger."

"Are you saying your DNA is on Wilson's jacket?"

Chris nodded. "Could be. Was he wearing the jacket when you, you know . . ."

"When I saw him hanging from the staircase? No. Just a pink polo shirt with blood down the front. No windbreaker."

We sat on the bench for a moment, each absorbed in our own thoughts. It was so wrong that Chris was mixed up in this.

"Julia, I can't believe what a mess this has turned into. I'm scared about what could happen."

Scared? I couldn't imagine Chris scared. Yet there he was, telling me it was so. Him confessing his fear rattled me more than anything else in the conversation.

Chris stood and turned toward the station. "Here goes nothing."

"I think you should get a lawyer."

"A-I can't afford it. B-I didn't kill the guy. I'll just have to trust in the system."

Chapter 27.

I sat on the bench a while after Chris left. The conversation had been unlike any we'd ever had. Since March, I'd poured out my emotions to him-my anger at Sonny, my frustration at being home, my fears for the clambake, but it was the first time Chris had ever been open and vulnerable with me. He'd never talked about how he felt, ever.

I was glad I'd been there when he needed me. Elated he'd opened up to me. But I wasn't as trustful of the system as he claimed to be. I pulled out my phone and texted Michaela. r u still bath? Boy, that text looked funny.

She responded immediately. yes at m-i-l help!

So, she was still at her almost mother-in-law's house. I remembered Tony's mother from the nonwedding day. A pinched-faced woman who looked none too happy, though it was impossible for me to say why-Ray's absence, the informal wedding, or some longer-term issue, like displeasure at her son's choice of bride. Anyway, it sounded like Michaela needed rescuing.

I texted back. coffee?

yes! when?

25?.

done. front n centre.

By which I guessed she meant the Cafe Creme on the corner of Front and Centre Streets in Bath in twenty-five minutes.

A few minutes later, I drove out of Busman's Harbor and headed up the peninsula to Route One. I'd had to borrow my mother's car, which made me feel like a teenager. I really needed to solve my transportation problem. But buying a car would mean I wasn't planning to return to Manhattan any time soon, and with the clambake closed for business, I couldn't let myself even think about that.

As I drove over the bridge into Bath, Maine, I saw the hulking mechanical cranes at the Bath Iron Works shipyard that overhung the natural beauty of the Kennebec River. It was one of my favorite views, visual evidence that Bath was a working town as well as a tourist town. Front Street was historic and inviting, a walkable amalgamation of upscale clothing stores, trendy restaurants, and antique stores, along with funky used bookstores and casual pubs.

Michaela sat in the coffee shop reading a book. She'd snagged a great seat on a couch in the big front window. I could see why she liked the place. It was New York Citylike in its ambiance, though with more room between the tables. My heart went ping as I imagined being back in the city at a place just like it.

Michaela greeted me as if we were long lost friends. I wondered if she'd left her mother-in-law's house the minute she got my text. We hadn't been close in New York, but I was probably the closest thing she had to a friend in Maine. As she hugged me, I wondered why anyone would want to ruin this woman's wedding day, and in such a horrible way. There was only one person I could think of. Tony. I took a seat in the comfy chair across from her.

"I'm so glad you're still here," I said.

Michaela rolled her eyes. "I'm not. Living with Tony's parents is a nightmare. His dad is great, but as far as his mom is concerned, no one will ever be good enough for her Tony. I knew that when I married-agreed to marry-him, of course. But I hadn't realized I'd be staying at her house for days when I was supposed to be on my honeymoon."

"Michaela, I'm so sorry. For everything."

"It's okay." She sighed. "It's not your fault. It is what it is. Tony and I will stay until after Ray's service at least. His body's been released. Tony is with Ray's parents making the arrangements. So much time has gone by, they want to have the service as soon as possible. Tomorrow even." Michaela's voice got a little husky as she spoke about Ray. "But enough about my troubles. How are you?"

I filled her in on my news since the weekend. She'd heard about the fire. "I never thought my wedding would bring so much unhappiness to both of us."

The pretty, young barista called out that my cappuccino was ready, along with a refill for Michaela. We sat for a moment enjoying the warm drinks while I gathered my courage to ask the next question. Despite my sympathy for Michaela, saving the clambake had to be my highest priority.

"The clambake is pretty much shut down until this murder gets solved. I know this has been worse for you than for us, but if we're closed for even a few more days, we'll lose the business altogether. So I have to ask, is there anything at all you haven't told Binder that might help him? Is there anything you have told him that he's not following up on?"

Michaela drew her pretty dark brows together. It wasn't where she'd expected the conversation to go.

She didn't say anything, so I prompted her. "I know you and Ray had an argument in Crowley's the night before he was murdered. And I know you called him from the Snuggles and were gone for several hours that night."

Michaela looked into her coffee cup and said nothing.

"Were you and Ray having an affair?" I asked it boldly and baldly. I had to get the question out.

"No! Whatever gave you that idea? It was nothing like that." I saw a flash of the bride aboard the Jacquie II who'd grasped my arm so tightly it went numb and demanded we turn the boat around. Michaela was so even-keeled most of the time, but there was a temper burning down deep.

I didn't want to admit her maid of honor had hinted about a relationship with Ray. Or that Binder had said Ray's body was left the way it was to upset her. So I didn't answer her directly, just pushed on. "What did you fight with Ray about, then?"

The anger drained away just as quickly as it erupted, replaced, it seemed, by sadness. "I can't tell you."

"Why can't you tell me? Ray's dead."

"I know, but I made a promise. And nowadays, I keep my promises."

Nowadays? What did that mean? I felt like I was walking a tightrope between her emotional extremes. I tried again. "Where did you go that night? Were you with Tony?"

"Tony!" Her eyes widened in surprise and she sat back in the deep couch.

"Because I don't think he slept-"

It took me a moment to realize she wasn't listening to me. She was staring through the plate gla.s.s window at something behind me. By the time I turned around, Tony pushed his way through the front door of the coffee shop.

"Hi, babe. Hi, Julia. This looks like fun. Mind if I join?"

If Michaela said more than two words after that point in the conversation, I don't remember what they were. Tony confirmed that Ray's funeral would be the next afternoon; the gathering afterward would be at Tony's parents' house. Ray's parents just weren't up to hosting. Michaela chewed on her lower lip while Tony talked about his boyhood in Bath and growing up with Ray, how they'd swum in the tidal waters at Popham Beach and played basketball together in high school. Like Michaela, Tony was casually, but expensively dressed. The cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders demonstrated how far he'd come from being a townie in Bath.

When he spoke about Ray, Tony appeared wistful, not angry. Not betrayed. Not guilty, at least as far as I could tell. His hand sought out Michaela's, just as he had when I'd talked to them in the dining room at the Bellevue Inn.

The more Tony talked, the more ridiculous I felt that I'd suspected Tony of murdering Ray out of jealousy. For one thing, Tony seemed absolutely secure in Michaela's love. And for another, though he wasn't broken up and sobbing, his reminiscences about Ray were warm, not tinged by anger in any way.

So Tony wasn't jealous of Ray. But there was something about Tony-the way he took control of the conversation, the way Michaela was so quiet in his presence-that left me uncomfortable. And I still didn't understand Michaela's relationship with Ray. If it wasn't an affair, why did she go out to meet him on her wedding's eve?

I promised them I'd go to Ray's funeral the next day and said my good-byes. I got into my mother's car and headed home, feeling frustrated. What had I been thinking? That I'd out-investigate the state police major crimes unit? All I'd succeeded in doing was wasting the day. I was farther than ever from discovering who'd killed Ray Wilson.

Chapter 28.

I shouted to my mom that I was home and ran upstairs to my office. I checked my cell phone to make sure that Binder hadn't called to say we could open. No such luck, not that I expected it after our "chat." I set about confirming with everyone we'd be closed tomorrow, yet again. No one was surprised. Livvie hadn't accepted any reservations. If I'd been able to be more honest with myself, I'd have been more honest with the employees and sent out a "stand down until further notice" type of e-mail. Instead, I was upbeat as possible and stated we were "day-to-day."

That ch.o.r.e behind me, I read a few blogs and generally procrastinated. I was discouraged about everything. The clambake business. The murder investigation. I could hear Mom in the kitchen, cooking us dinner. G.o.d help me.

My eyes fell on the Sunday New York Times I'd been reading earlier, the real estate section still open on the top. I'd never finished going through the paper. I decided to dream about Manhattan apartments a little more.

As I pulled the Times to my lap, I noticed a page in the real estate section was dog-eared, just like the one containing Tony and Michaela's wedding announcement had been. I turned to the page. About halfway down in the left-hand column was a story about Tony and Ray.

OFF THE GRID BUT LUXE.

Resort developers Tony Poitras and Ray Wilson have found a winning formula for today's overwhelmed consumers. Can't take a break from your smartphone, e-mail, or social media, even on vacation? Poitras and Wilson's resorts force you to slow down and smell the roses. Built on islands, the resorts purposely offer no Internet, cell coverage, or television. You can't feed your addiction because these services just are not available. But unlike most other "off the grid" vacations, these resorts are luxurious. You can't get online, but you can get a ma.s.sage, a sumptuous meal, and a bottle of Dom Perignon.

Built from the enormous "summer cottages," hunting lodges, and private hotels of the super rich of another age, Poitras and Wilson's properties allow guests to live it up old-school, as in old school tie. Customers pay four figures a day at the low end to be whisked in and out via helicopter for an experience one described as a cross between a "luxury spa and an English country house party." Poitras and Wilson have properties in the Finger Lakes of New York, near Mackinaw Island, Michigan, off Vancouver, British Columbia, and in the Caribbean. They are currently on the hunt for more properties.

A chill ran through me. Who the heck was I dealing with? At first, I'd a.s.sumed Michaela had approached me about her wedding reception because we'd been acquaintances in New York. Later, I'd learned that wasn't true. Tony had grown up just down the coast and had chosen Morrow Island for their wedding. Now it turned out, Tony and Ray were also in the business of turning islands into resorts. Were they after Morrow Island?

After a truly terrible dinner, I rushed back to my office. I stayed up late into the night, searching the Web for everything I could find out about Ray and Tony. For the most part, the articles confirmed what I'd read in the Times. They had started as contractors, then became residential developers, then hit on the idea for luxury resorts in remote places without cell service or Internet. Part of their "winning formula" was to get the properties cheap from cash-strapped owners.

I visited all the Web pages for their resorts and they were, indeed, lovely places, former country homes that Ray and Tony gutted and rebuilt with attention to period detail and an overall sense of cosseting for their guests. Some articles in local papers near the resorts complained about the environmental impact of things like indoor swimming pools on small islands, not to mention the noise of the helicopters coming and going, but for the most part, Ray and Tony seemed to be welcomed as environmentally conscious custodians of places that would otherwise have been lost.

I found much less, nothing in fact, about Quentin Tupper III, the man who'd appeared, left me a newspaper, and then disappeared again. As I'd remembered, tons of Tuppers lived in Maine, particularly on that part of the coast, so there were genealogies galore online and newspaper stories about lots of Tuppers, but not Quentin. I wondered how a grown man who lived in New York City could leave no footprints on the World Wide Web. Had he never run in a road race, sung in a chorus, donated to a charity, or reviewed an online purchase? It seemed so unlikely.

I'd been irritated when I found the dog-eared wedding announcement. I'd thought Quentin Tupper was rubbing my nose in the tragic events that occurred at the Snowden Family Clambake's very first wedding reception. Now, I didn't know what to think. Was he sending me some kind of message?

I vaguely remembered that he lived somewhere in my New York City neighborhood. I wanted to contact him, to ask what he was up to, but there was nothing.

I searched until I fell into bed, exhausted, at two in the morning.