Murder in a Cape Cottage, page 11
Waitperson Kim smiled and came over to greet him, leaning down to give Forrest a kiss. “Hey, Granddad.”
“Kimmie, have you met Mac Almeida?” he asked. “She owns the bike shop down the street.”
“Hi, Kim,” I said. “I was in with my mom a couple of days ago. Astra? She seemed to know you.”
“Good to see you again, Mac.” She smiled. “Astra’s great. If you’ll both excuse me, I’m almost late for my shift. Love you, Granddad.”
“Don’t be a stranger, now.” Forrest smiled as Kim sauntered away. “Nothing like a young person to cheer up an old guy.”
“I have a five-year-old niece who has the same effect on me.” At a booth near the door to the kitchen, I spied Win’s unmistakable head popping up as she stood. Win must eat fast if she was now done with lunch. A middle-aged woman rose, too. Her mom, perhaps? Kim slowed. I couldn’t hear what the two young people said, but it didn’t look particularly friendly. Kim, with a shake of the head, disappeared into the kitchen.
Win and the woman were on a trajectory to pass our table. Forrest sat with his back to them.
I raised a hand and smiled. “Hi, Win.”
She slowed, appearing only marginally more friendly than in the bookstore. She tapped the woman on the arm, alerting her to stop. “Mac, this is my mother, Emily Winslow Swift. Where I got my name, obviously. Mom, Mac Almeida.”
I hadn’t asked Win why she was named Winslow. So Emily was a Winslow. Of the Winslow Granite company? Emily was tall like Win, with tasteful makeup and a designer handbag over her designer coat–clad arm.
Forrest glanced up, and half stood. “Ladies.” He gave a faint smile, then sat again.
“Nice to meet you, Emily,” I said. “My first name is my mom’s maiden name, too.” Actually, Mom had never changed her last name when she married Pa. But should I mention I’d met Orrin that morning? I’d better. He would surely tell them. “I happened to speak with your husband this morning.”
Emily tilted her head. “You did? Why?”
“I was out for a walk and was admiring your beautiful home. He came out to put something in the dumpster, so I introduced myself. We didn’t talk long.”
“Dad’s got this thing going on about clearing out the attic.” Win shook her head.
“Do you both know Forrest Ruhlen?” I asked.
“Emily and I are acquainted, of course,” Forrest said.
Emily murmured a few polite niceties, then excused herself and Win.
Despite being the same age, Win and Kim sure hadn’t looked like they were friendly. As the mother and daughter headed out, I thought maybe a little more digging on the Winslow family might be a good idea. Emily wasn’t a Swift by blood, but she acted like one.
“That acorn didn’t fall far from the tree,” Forrest muttered, staring after them.
I didn’t know a thing about the Winslow family. Could one of Emily’s parents or aunts or uncles have been involved in the long-ago homicide—or homicides? “Do you mean Emily or Win?”
As if startled I was still there, he gave his head a little shake. “Both, actually.”
CHAPTER 27
I didn’t leave the bar until nearly five. I walked home deep in thought about Forrest; his father, Richard; even his grandfather. About families like the Ruhlens—with the exception of Forrest—and Winslows and Swifts thinking they were better than others because of their upbringing and their wealth. Wondering if Barlow also had that mindset, although he hadn’t seemed to in the two times I’d seen him.
I was also trying to figure out how I could learn more about Kim Ruhlen and Win Swift. Their interchange could have meant nothing. Or it could relate to the long-ago crime in some way I didn’t know yet. I’d wanted to ask Kim to talk to me about Win, but the server had always seemed too busy. I’d been about to ask Forrest when he’d started going into way more detail than I’d ever wanted to learn about the florist business.
Now it was dark out, and cold. I hurried the last quarter mile after I rounded the corner off Main Street. Blacksmith Shop Road wasn’t particularly well lit. When a car door slammed, I jumped. I whirled at a creak, but it was only a big tree limb rubbing against another. Why was I so spooked? I didn’t think I was in danger, except I’d thought that in the past and had been wrong. I was probably just haunted by the thought of Della’s bones in the wall and the questions about what had happened to her.
The minute I walked in the door, Tim insisted I shut and cover my eyes.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, his voice excited.
My first thought was, Let this not be another skeleton. But Tim wouldn’t sound so happy if it was, and anyway, he wouldn’t pull something like that on me. I sniffed freshly cut wood as he led me through the first-floor bedroom to our new bathroom space, also known as Della’s tomb for eighty years. I had to quit thinking of it like that or I’d never be at peace living here.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
I obeyed—and gasped.
“Voilà!” he announced, wearing a big grin.
“Tim, oh my gosh.”
I was met, not with a skeleton, but with a totally gutted and cleaned-up future bathroom, complete with metal receptacles in the walls. Wires, neatly stapled to the studs, led from the boxes into the floor.
“You got so much done,” I said.
“I convinced the electrician to stay on.”
“Well, I’m impressed.” I tried not to think about the wall Della had been chained to. I couldn’t help but look.
Tim noticed where my gaze had gone. “I filled the hole where the bolt was,” he murmured as he slung his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Do you want to leave anything inside the wall before we close up? Like her name or something?”
Something to memorialize Della Louise Ruhlen. To bring more positive juju to the erstwhile Della Cabral’s temporary grave.
“I love that idea. I’ll have to think about what would be right.” Forrest’s photograph of the young Della popped into my mind. Maybe I could convince him to remove it from the frame so the glass wouldn’t reflect back and let me take a picture of it. I could have it printed and write a tiny history of her on the back.
“It’s no rush,” Tim went on. “The plumber can’t come until next week.”
“But we’ll be gone then.” I heard my voice rise. “We’ll be honeymooning on St. John!”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He stroked my arm. “Derrick said he’d oversee the work here. And it’s not like we won’t have phone coverage down there, Mac. Mom is well set up at her place with both wifi and cell access.”
“Okay.” I took in a deep breath and let it out. This project was proceeding along, skeleton or no skeleton. Tim had it under control. I needed to let it go. “All right. Sounds good.”
He pulled me in for an embrace. I stood there, accepting his warm, strong self, just being there. I didn’t know why it was so hard for me to simply be present in the moment. But it was. Especially this week.
When my stomach rumbled, I pulled back, smiling. My metabolism had finally burned through both the lobster roll and the beer.
“How about I handle dinner?” I asked.
“Sounds good. Let me guess. Takeout?”
He knew me too well. “I was thinking a couple of Westham Flatbreads would hit the spot.”
“Pizza? I’m in.” He went off to wash up.
I sat in the living room. I called in an Equilibrium—roasted tomato sauce, artichoke hearts, goat cheese, fresh basil, and caramelized onions—and a WFB. The Westham Flatbreads Basic was your basic pizza, with sauce, mozzarella, pepperoni, and mushrooms. I said no to salad and yes please to delivery. We were such regular customers they had both Tim’s and my cell numbers on file.
When they said it would be forty-five minutes, I stayed right there on the couch. If I was going to leave a memorial to Della in the wall, shouldn’t there be one for Manny, too? Should it be with Della’s or where he died?
I dug into the internet, searching for Manuel Cabral. Manny Cabral. 1940. Azorean American. Westham. Elopement. And all combinations thereof.
The article about Manny and Della’s supposed elopement popped up, but that wasn’t new. I kept digging, falling into rabbit holes, resurfacing.
Wait. I hit the Back arrow. I had flown by the name of his fishing boat. Actually, the vessel he apparently had co-owned with his father, Fernando. It was named Boa Sorte. Which meant “Good Luck.” Now I had something to pair with Manny other than Della. I dove back into the rabbit hole.
I froze as I stared at the screen. It was a digitized article from the Cape Cod Standard-Times dated March 15, 1940, with a headline of, “Man’s Corpse Washes Up on Beach. Identity Unknown.” I kept reading. The article said the body must have been in the water for some time because the facial features were unrecognizable. The authorities asked for anyone missing a family member or friend to please contact them.
Digging more, I couldn’t find anything else about this mysterious body. But what about the boat? Had it returned to shore? Been scuttled? I kept poking, following links until I found something. A lobsterman checking his traps off Woods Hole in April 1941, had found one of his traps snagged on something. His brother was a diver, who went down and located several pieces of a fishing boat, including the name painted on the side of the bow. The boat’s name? Boa Sorte.
I sat back. The body had to be Manny’s. That was the boat he’d owned with his father. Had his father become alarmed? Had anyone looked for Manny? Most important, had he met with a mishap himself? The boat sank, and Manny drowned? I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t have searched everywhere for Della when she disappeared. The couple’s vanishing had to have been from two malicious acts. Somebody walled in the bride. And somebody took Manny out on the water under false pretenses, pushed him overboard, and sank his boat. The same somebodies, or different ones?
A loud knock at the door made me jump. Tim hurried in, his hair damp, his person smelling of soap and rainwater shampoo.
“Mac?” He set his hand on the doorknob. “Flatbreads texted you twice. The pizza is here.”
CHAPTER 28
After dinner and a couple of Great British Baking Show episodes with Tim, he begged off, saying he was beat and needed to hit the sack. I kissed him and sent him upstairs, then switched off the show.
I wished tonight was an actual book group meeting so I could hash through what I’d learned with my fellow non-sleuths. Instead, I settled for tapping out a text to the group thread.
Found article in Cape Cod Standard-Times about male body washing up on a beach in March 1940. Face unrecognizable. Manny? Also found report of pieces of a fishing boat called Boa Sorte discovered the next month. Manny’s boat name. Thoughts about who did away with him? Had to be two people—or not?
I sent it. Thinking back over my day, I realized I hadn’t shared the little bit I’d learned from Forrest.
Forrest Ruhlen said his mom was good friends with Della. He’s going to look for possible letters they exchanged and has a diary, too.
While I was staring at my phone, I checked the weather for tomorrow. Ugh. Boston was going to get snow, but all we were due for was sleet and freezing rain. This was the worst part of living on the Cape. Often it was cooler than farther north and west in the summertime, but the temperature was a few degrees warmer than the rest of the state in the winter, which made all the difference in our weather. Precipitation that would be pretty, dry, and shovel-able farther north transformed into liquid down here. Cold, slippery liquid. Double ugh. With certain other storms, the fluffy stuff became heavy, water-laden snow, what some called heart-attack snow.
Was nine p.m. too late to call Gin? Nah. I was about to press her number when she called me first.
“Good thing we agreed not to walk,” she said.
“I’ll say. Tomorrow sounds miserable. I hate that kind of weather.”
“I do, too. Hey, I saw the thread. Good digging.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I still don’t have actual answers about who killed Manny and sank his boat. If that was even him.”
“We’ll get there.”
“It had to have been two people. I mean, one might have gone out with him under some guise. Figured out how to kill him and shove him overboard. And was met by another person with a different boat.”
“And together they sank the Boa Sorte?” Gin asked. “I wonder how you sink a boat? Fishing boats aren’t very small.”
“You’d have to put a hole in the hull to let water in, right?”
“Maybe they shot Manny and used the same gun to make holes.”
“Could be, although the article didn’t mention bullet holes in him.” I thought. “Or they lit a piece of dynamite and threw it on board.”
She laughed. “I don’t dare go researching this on the internet. ‘How to sink a boat from another boat.’ If the NSA is watching, we’re both sunk.”
I groaned.
“Pun intended,” Gin added.
“Gin,” I began, my brain veering onto a tangent of sorts. “In 1940, do you think two women would have pulled off an attack like that?”
“Interesting question. They could have, and I’m sure there are other ways of sinking a boat. Like pulling some kind of drain plug, although I’m sure there’s a nautical term for whatever it is. If the women knew boats or were good with guns or dynamite, why not? But would they have? I don’t know. Who did you have in mind?”
“Information is kind of spotty. Kit Swift is the only woman I’ve heard of with a grudge against Della. An unfounded grudge, by all reports. I met Emily Swift today. Win’s mom. I’m pretty sure the Winslows were another elite family here. Yesterday I saw a photograph in the Sand Dollar of the Winslow Granite company.”
“Yes, the Winslows were a big name for a while,” Gin agreed.
“I didn’t know any Winslows in school, but I’m probably between their generations.”
“You should hear Emily crow about them when she comes into my shop. You’d think they were bloody royalty.”
“Does she mention anyone in particular?” I asked.
“Her great-aunt Sarah is on some kind of pedestal, I’ll tell you.”
The sound of ice cubes came over the phone.
“Are you having an adult beverage?” I asked.
“And why not? I am, in case you haven’t noticed, an adult in my forties in her own home.”
“Hang on a minute, okay? Now I want one, too.” I set down the phone and poured myself a little glass of a twenty-year-old port. “I’m back. You were talking about Sarah Winslow.”
“She apparently was tight with Kit Swift,” Gin said. “They founded the Westham Ladies’ Cycling Club, according to Emily.”
“The club sounds cool. Do you know if Sarah had a brother?”
“A brother who could have helped her drive a boat out to sea, perhaps with an explosive aboard? I like how you think, Mac.”
“Thanks. But did she?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Emily put in a special chocolate order yesterday, and it’ll be ready tomorrow. You can be sure I’ll steer the conversation around to her aunt. If she had a great-uncle, I’ll find out.”
“Or Sarah could have done it with a sister or a father, even.”
“Right.”
“I tried to ask some questions at the police station,” I said. “I didn’t get very far.”
“Too bad Lincoln is away.”
“I know. How’s Eli?”
“Good. He’s in the other room working on a research paper.”
I stifled a yawn. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“For me too. Let’s touch base tomorrow.”
I agreed and disconnected. I heard a tapping on the window that faced east and looked up in alarm. Was someone out there in the night trying to get my attention? Here I was, sitting in a pool of lamplight, feet on the coffee table, alone. Had we even locked the doors? I hadn’t lived in this house long enough to know Tim’s habits. How easy it was to grow complacent in the usually safe atmosphere of a small town.
I reached up and switched off the light. The sound continued, almost a scratching. My thudding heart nearly drowned it out. My phone glowed in the dark. I wanted to shut off the screen, but I also thought I should keep it live in case I needed to hit 9-1-1. I strained my ears even as my hands grew clammy.
Then I laughed out loud. The noise on the window was freezing rain. Or maybe sleet. I had trouble keeping them apart. The frozen precipitation had simply started earlier than forecast. Hey, better today and tomorrow than Saturday. An ice-pocalypse was the last thing my wedding needed.
CHAPTER 29
After spending a bit of quality time with my parrot in the parsonage the next morning, my mood was only a little lifted. The clouds that had brought the dangerous precipitation still lingered. The dark way I felt matched the day. Still, I’d gotten myself up and washed and was determined to make headway on whatever I could learn about Della and Manny.
I drove Miss M—very carefully—over to Westham Village again at around ten. The world was encased in ice. The Westham road crews had been out salting, sanding, and scraping all night, from the looks of it, bless their hardworking and sleep-deprived hearts.
Sirens wailed, but I didn’t encounter whatever emergency vehicles they came from. I hoped someone hadn’t slid into a ditch or, worse, into another car. I had to be extra careful that didn’t happen to me.
My mission here was to corner Al and ask more questions about his uncle Manny. I’d poked around a little more this morning online but hadn’t really found anything additional about either the male corpse or the Boa Sorte. On the thread, Flo had said she’d mount a search once she got into work. I’d added a request to look into the cycling club founded a hundred years earlier by Sarah Winslow, and to find out if she had a brother.
Inside the facility, I identified myself to a young woman at the front desk and asked to speak with Al.
