Clammed Up: A Maine Clambake Mystery Part 14

"Get out. What kind of drugs?"

"That, I am not going to tell you.'"

I wasn't going to let him get off the hook so easily. "So he was drugged and then hung him from the staircase? Are the drugs what killed him?"

"He had drugs in his body. He was dead when he was hung. That's all I'm going to say." Jamie shifted his body away from me like he was afraid he'd said too much.

"And the police are sure he didn't take the drugs himself ?"

Jamie was silent.

"C'mon," I prodded. "You can't leave me hanging."

"Geez, Julia."

"No pun intended. Believe me. How do you know he didn't take the drugs himself ?"

"There were no drugs on him or in his hotel room. And the levels in his blood were high, way too high . . . and doubly dangerous when mixed with alcohol. He wouldn't have taken that much and had so much to drink unless he was trying to kill himself."

"You're sure he didn't kill himself ?"

Jamie burst out laughing. "And then hung himself from the stairway at Windsholme after he was dead? You are one cheap drunk. That's your first mojito."

Oh, right. I guess that scenario was unlikely. I finished my drink and signaled to the bartender for another round. "How long before he died was he drugged?"

"Several hours."

"He was drinking right here in this bar several hours before he died." I started to get excited. Who had been in Crowley's that night? Michaela, Tony, the maid of honor. The entire wedding party, in fact. And Sarah Halsey.

And Chris Durand.

d.a.m.n.

The bartender arrived with mojitos for both of us.

Jamie and I closed down Crowley's. After he told me about the drugs in Ray Wilson's system, we moved on and talked about everything except the murder-our days at Busman's Elementary, our high school and college summers working at the clambake. When I asked why he became a cop, he answered, "to help people." Then he asked why I became a venture capitalist, and I answered "same reason," which four mojitos in, we found hilarious. I laughed until I cried.

He insisted on paying for my drinks, which I protested, and on walking me home, which I didn't, because I felt awfully wobbly. On my front porch he kissed me. Between one thing and another, it had been a while since I'd been kissed, but I was certain that's what it was. A gentlemanly graze of the lips.

He mumbled, "G'night," and took off down the block like a rocket.

Chapter 36.

By morning, the whole night seemed like one terrible idea after another. Going to Crowley's, sitting with Jamie, the mojitos, the walk, the kiss. Argh. The harder I worked at forgetting the whole thing, the more I remembered.

The persistent buzzing of my cell phone finally got me out of bed. The display read, BOB DITZY. I didn't answer. I figured there was a limit to the terrible news he could leave in a phone message. Four days closed, one to go. He'd said if we were closed today, he'd have to inform his loan committee.

There was also a message from Lieutenant Binder saying his team would do "one last" search of the island this afternoon and I was welcome to come along. They'd meet me at 1:00 on the town dock. That, at least, was welcome news. If we were cleared to open the clambake by 4:00 or so, I had time to call my suppliers and at least let the hotels in the area know we were back in business, so they could send their guests in our direction.

That left the whole morning open with too much time to think. About everything. The murder. The loan. The fire. The kiss.

It's not that I didn't like Jamie. He'd been a friend all my life. I just didn't think of him that way. And besides, I liked Chris.

I could freak out about the business or freak out about Jamie, but neither seemed productive. Or, I could go see Sarah Halsey. As far as I knew, Binder hadn't had anyone at Ray Wilson's funeral to observe the strange scene between Sarah's and Ray's mothers. Even if he did have someone there, a state cop might not have recognized Marie Halsey. I decided to visit Sarah.

I'd never been to Sarah's apartment over Gleason's Hardware on Main Street. When her mother opened the door, I was shocked by how tiny the place was. It's not unusual in resort areas for housing to be too expensive for teachers, firefighters, and cops to live in the town they serve. Sarah had managed to find a place in town by making a major sacrifice on s.p.a.ce. The door opened into the living room, which was currently decorated with several hundred strewn Legos. Tyler waved when I walked in, then returned to his building project. Right off the living room, I could see a bedroom with two twin beds. I guessed those belonged to Tyler and his grandmother. Sarah probably slept on the uncomfortable-looking pullout sofa in the living room.

Sarah came out of the bathroom. There was no way in that tiny apartment she hadn't heard me come in.

"I need to talk to you. It's about Ray Wilson."

Sarah nodded toward Tyler and gave me a warning look. "Tyler, I'm going outside to talk to Miss Snowden for a minute. Stay with Grammie. I'll be right out front." She led me out onto the sidewalk in front of Gleason's and gestured toward an outdoor bench.

"I saw your mother at Ray's funeral," I said when we'd sat down.

"She told me. I knew you'd wonder why she was there."

"Sarah, can you help me save the clambake? Please tell me what you know about Ray."

Sarah sat on the bench and stared off at our little town-the library, the post office, Small's Ice Cream across the street. "I want to help you. I really do. Not just to save my job, but because your family's been so good to me. Your dad hired me to work at the clambake when Tyler was only six weeks old. Remember, I used to take him out to the island every day and your mom would watch him and Page? I don't know what I would have done without your family."

"Then tell me about you and Ray Wilson."

Sarah blushed deeply and took a deep breath. "I was sixteen, working for the summer in the Penny Candy Store in Bath."

I nodded to show I knew the place.

"Ray came in with Tony and a bunch of his other friends. He was just out of college, working and taking his summer vacation in Bath, visiting his family and old friends." She hesitated. "What can I say? I was his summer fling."

"You were nine years younger than he was!"

"I told him I was twenty. It was all so glamorous. He took me sailing. We went out every night. We walked right into bars when I was on his arm. I got drunk for the first time. He was the handsome, sophisticated older guy who'd been away to college and lived in New York. My life wasn't like yours and Livvie's. I didn't go away to boarding school. I'd never been outside of Maine. I fell hard."

I felt badly for her. The poor kid. It was easy to see what had happened. "And then?"

"His vacation ended. He went back to New York. I went back to my life, except for one thing."

"You were pregnant." I remembered seeing Sarah and my sister when I came home from college for Christmas, still looking like kids, with skinny legs and big tummies.

"Now you know the whole story. Ray Wilson was Tyler's dad." Sarah let out a long breath.

"Does Livvie know?"

"I told her the same thing I told everyone else. Tyler's dad was 'some jerk.' And he was."

"But I still don't understand why Mrs. Wilson cut your mother down at the funeral. I would think for Tyler's sake, Ray's parents would try to get along with your family."

"So you saw that. Mom was so embarra.s.sed." Sarah balled her fists. She seemed to be marshaling her courage to go on.

"You said you'd do anything to help the clambake," I reminded her.

"And I meant it. This is just hard for me." If possible, her blush deepened. "The truth is, I never told Ray about Tyler. In those two weeks we were together, on some level, I understood that Ray drank too much. Not like his friends, getting a little wild on vacation. In my heart, I knew what the problem was. My dad was a drunk. So when I found out I was pregnant, I didn't want to put my kid through what I'd been through." She swallowed. "After Tyler was born, I did get in touch with Ray a couple times. I wanted to tell him. But each time I met him, he was drunk. So I never did."

She stopped again and I waited. I knew there was more she wanted to tell me. I just had to be patient.

"A couple years ago during one of Ray's attempts to sober up, he came to see me."

"Ray Wilson came here to Busman's Harbor?"

"Walked right up and knocked on my door. It's not like we're hiding or anything. Tyler answered and it took about thirty seconds for Ray to put it together. All he did was ask Tyler how old he was. Maybe Ray suspected. Maybe there'd been rumors. Ray was furious, as you can imagine. It's a big thing to keep from somebody. That's why Ray's mother acted the way she did at his funeral."

Everything she'd told me made sense . . . except I still couldn't figure out why she'd been at Crowley's the night of the murder. It couldn't have been a coincidence. I would have thought she'd want to avoid Ray, not seek him out. "Why did you go to Crowley's that night, Sarah?"

"I wanted to talk to him, but he was drunk again. Then he got into a huge fight with the bride. So I went home." The blush dropped away and she turned pale and shaky. "I'm so sorry for any trouble I caused your family, Julia. Ray was my problem and I thought I had it handled. I never would have imagined everything that's happened since."

"I'm sorry, too, Sarah, but you haven't caused us any trouble. Whoever killed Ray did that." I realized I was saying to her exactly what Jamie had said to me. "Have the police questioned you?"

She nodded. "Originally because I was in Crowley's that night."

"And you've told them everything you've told me?"

She nodded. "Swear to G.o.d."

Chapter 37.

I still had a lot of time to kill before I went out to Morrow Island with Binder in the afternoon, so I borrowed my mom's car and headed to Quentin Tupper's house on Westclaw Point. Bob Ditzy had rung my cell phone two more times, but hadn't left a second message, which I figured was all to the good.

Twenty minutes later, almost at the end of the point, I turned down Tupper's driveway, which was really just a double track. I was amused to see what I took to be his car parked out back-a mint-condition, antique wooden-sided estate wagon. I imagined Quentin driving up Route 95 from New York City in it. Quite a sight.

I walked around the property to the ocean side and climbed the steps to his deck, calling "h.e.l.lo," loudly. I imagined unexpected visitors, or even strange cars, were rare that far down the point. The house was ma.s.sive, a three-story wall of dark gray granite, with huge windows all along the front looking out to the wild North Atlantic.

Windows? Wasn't that how Sonny said Tupper made his fortune? I leaned on the deck rail. A long dock ran from the property out to a sleek sailboat moored in deep water. Forty-footer, I guessed. A single-hand, high-tech, carbon-fiber racing boat. Custom-made, with all the bells and whistles.

Despite the luxurious look of the house, the deck was spa.r.s.ely furnished with a standard-issue picnic table and two worn Adirondack chairs. At the end of the deck next to the railing was a telescope, trained right on Morrow Island. I couldn't resist. I looked into it.

Across the water, I saw our little beach surrounded by great slabs of rust-colored rock. Beyond the rock, the hill rose up, covered on the backside of the island with a dense growth of scrub oak and pine. Rising above all that, I could see the slate roof, chimneys, and fourth floor dormers of Windsholme.

I turned the telescope to look at the inlet just down the coast from Tupper's property where the tide had deposited all the inflatable toys Livvie and I had lost when we were little. If Ray Wilson went to the island at low tide and left a boat on the beach to be washed out, that was where it would have turned up. But I didn't see a boat or anything else.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" That man was always sneaking up on me.

"I was just thinking the same thing," I said.

"I've seen humpback whales breach right out there between your property and mine. Magnificent creatures."

"I've seen them, too." From our island. "Your house is beautiful . . . to go with the beautiful setting."

"Thanks. I love it here."

"Did you design the windows?"

"What?"

"My brother-in-law told me that you invented some kind of window."

Quentin threw his head back and laughed. "Is that what they're saying around town? Not windows, Windows . . . with a capital W."

Oh my G.o.d, he invented Windows? No, of course he didn't.

Quentin motioned toward the two Adirondack chairs on the deck and we sat down. "I was a cla.s.sics major. The kinds of language skills cla.s.sics majors develop are perfect for computer programming. I dabbled in that, too and while I was still at college I developed a tiny piece of code that makes almost every computer program you use run minutely faster. Whenever someone buys a certain operating system or application that runs on it, I get a few fractions of a penny."

My G.o.d. I tried to figure out how much money that would be. Hundreds of millions was the best I could come up with. "Are you still a computer programmer?"

"Nope. Never really was. Just hit it lucky with a few lines of code."

"So what do you do now?"

He sat in the Adirondack chair, looking comfortable and at home with himself. "Nothing."

"Nothing? No one does nothing." My work in venture capital had given me a pretty clear idea of what the very rich do. They sit on the boards of nonprofits, they take up expensive hobbies, they dabble in politics. Sometimes they even invest in small companies where they drive the management crazy with suggestions because having once made a lot of money doing one thing, they think they know everything about everything. I was overly familiar with that kind of rich person. But someone who did nothing? That was outside my experience. Yet I remembered, I'd found not a single trace of Quentin Tupper on the Web.

"It's a challenge to do nothing, believe me. I've had to cultivate it carefully. All around are entanglements. Say one word at a meeting of your condo board and the next thing you know, you're on a committee-or worse yet, running the thing. Attend a charity event or give a little money to your alma mater, and you end up calling all your friends to put the squeeze on them. It is very, very difficult to do nothing, but through hard work and attention to detail, I've accomplished it."

"You sail." I pointed to the beautiful boat moored at his dock.

"I do. It's part of my overall do-nothing plan. I walk out to the end of my dock and sail away. I never plan ahead. I don't race. I never give parties on my boat. I buy whatever supplies I need at the next port. "

Very soon, if the clambake failed, I'd probably be doing nothing myself, though that had never been part of any plan. Doing nothing without Quentin's resources didn't seem like much fun at all.

"You arrived in Busman's Harbor the morning of Ray Wilson's murder," I said. "The paper you gave me had a front section and a sports section from the early Sunday edition, as well as the parts of the paper only New York metro readers get. For you to be sitting at Gus's by 7:00 AM on Sunday when we first met, you must have left New York in the wee hours. That seems like an odd thing for a man who has no appointments or obligations."

"I answer to no one. I come and go as I please."

He was starting to annoy me again. "Really, Quentin. Why did you give me that paper?"

Quentin smiled, trying to diffuse my irritation. "My family has owned this land for eight generations. Did you know that? It was never any good for farming. There was almost nothing on it before I built this house, just a little fishing shack my ancestors used to enforce their traditional claim to lobstering in these waters. But this isn't the first home I've built. I had a gorgeous place in the Hamptons. Peaceful, convenient to New York. But then some jerk movie producer bought the place across the bay from me and put in a helipad. It was like living in Fallujah. Helicopters coming and going at all hours."