CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

"Tom!" I called from the top of Windsholme's grand staircase, steadying myself on the newel post. "Tom!"

My words disappeared into a sweep of rain against the two-story window behind the lower landing and the large oval foyer below. We'd rehearsed the wedding there hours earlier, when the sun was out, and we were planning for a beautiful day. I looked back at Jamie, framed in the doorway of my apartment. He nodded encouragingly.

I put a foot on the first step, cautiously and slowly, but then decided going fast was the better approach. I flew down the stairs, through the foyer, then the dark main salon, where the round tables were already set for the wedding dinner, to the door of the billiards room. My hands were shaking at the idea of being on my own, and I couldn't turn the knob on the first try. Julia, get ahold of yourself. I got it on the next try, and the door swung open.

Pete was seated in one of the room's comfortable chairs, meant for brides, their mothers, or attendants. The chair was a satiny pink, and he looked ridiculous in it. Tom was standing and turned quickly as I entered the room. "Where's Dawes?"

"He stayed with Zoey." The look on Tom's face caused me to quickly add, "She isn't good."

Tom looked like he was going to speak, but then shut his mouth, nodding.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Pete will stay with Mr. Clarkson," Tom said. "You and I will start talking to witnesses."

I looked over at Pete, comfy in his chair. He was a notoriously early riser, who suffered through his occasional obligations to take the night shift. He was the best man, and though I'd noticed he'd stuck to beer, I wasn't sure how much he'd drunk. At least, whatever he'd had, he'd had it a couple of hours ago. A couple of sobering hours in every sense.

Pete noticed me looking at him and waved a hand. "I'll be fine."

Tom had already started for the door, but turned back when Pete spoke. "He'll be fine," Tom said. "I want you with me."

I would have liked to think it was because he wanted my keen insights into human nature during the interviews, but a more likely explanation was he didn't want me out of his sight. I didn't want him out of my sight either. He might've been a trained professional, but there was always safety in numbers. I followed him out the door.

"Who first?" I asked.

"Unless you think anyone in particular has information, we pick person number one randomly and keep going."

We were on the second floor by then, headed down the hallway. "The art teacher," I suggested. "Constance Marshall. She is, or probably was, the officiant. She's from California, where she taught Zoey in high school. I saw her talking to the dead man during the cocktail party. It got a little heated."

"Good enough," Tom said, as we stopped outside her door. He gave it a hard rap with his knuckles.

Constance opened the door right away, no doubt assuming it was Jamie, summoning her to stay with Zoey. "Oh." She stepped back into the room, surprised.

Tom entered with me right behind him. There were two chairs in the room in addition to the bed. One was at a small writing desk, the other a leather easy chair. There was a paperback book, upside down and open on the side table, and the reading lamp was on. Constance had clearly been sitting there, keeping herself awake with a book in case Zoey needed her.

The day's cast-off clothes were draped over the back of the desk chair. I knew Tom wouldn't want to have this conversation while standing, because it would signal we needed to be gone as quickly as possible. He'd want Constance to have the impression we would stay as long as it took.

I removed the clothes from the back of the wooden chair, placing them on the desk, and turned the chair to face the room. Tom understood what I was doing and sat in it immediately. I sat on the still-made bed, thinking, correctly as it turned out, that the natural thing for Constance to do would be to go back to the easy chair, where she was obviously comfortable.

When we were all seated, Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of him. "You saw the man who unfortunately was taken ill during dinner?" he asked Constance.

She nodded, serious. "I did. Zoey told me he died. I'm so sorry."

"Unfortunately, no one seems to be able to provide information about his identity." Tom's tone was as serious as hers. "Like who his next of kin might be. People who need to be notified, that sort of thing. We're trying to help with that."

Constance nodded. "And you are?" She looked at me on the bed. "I know Julia, but . . ."

A flash of lightning through the window behind her made me jump. "I'm sorry," I said. "I've misplaced my manners. This is—" Thunder rumbled in the background. Pretty far away. It was early in the year for thunderstorms, but not impossibly so. Obviously.

"I apologize," Tom put in before I could speak again. He paused long enough for me to wonder whether he would give his title. "I'm Tom Flynn. I'm with the Maine State Police. I'm here because I'm Julia's boyfriend. And a friend of Jamie and Zoey's."

He'd told her he was police, but not a detective. He'd also conveyed that he was here for the wedding and not on duty, which was certainly true.

I cleared my throat lightly. "At the cocktail party, I saw you speaking to the gentleman who died. And we wondered whether he had told you anything that might help us reach his family." When I'd moved the clothes, I'd noticed Constance's phone plugged in on the desk. If she'd been reading her book, there was a chance, just a small one, that she didn't realize we'd lost internet and phone connection to the mainland and therefore couldn't reach the man's family at the moment.

"We did speak," Constance confirmed, "although briefly and superficially, I'm afraid."

"But he introduced himself," Tom prompted. Clearly Constance was a stickler for proper introductions.

"He told me his name was Kendall Clarkson," she said, "and he was from Los Angeles, like me."

"What did you talk about?" Tom asked.

"Well, about art," Constance said, as if there were no other topic. "I told him I taught art, and he said he owned a gallery in Los Angeles, not far from where I live. I described my art for him as best I could and showed him a couple of photos on my phone, though that hardly does them justice. He said he might be interested in showing my work, and I should come by with some paintings."

"Your paintings are?" I asked.

"Oils. Mostly California landscapes."

"Did he give you a business card," Tom asked, "so you could contact him?"

"He didn't have any with him. It was a social occasion. He did tell me the name of the gallery, Kendall's, so I could look it up."

"Thank you," Tom said. "That's very helpful." Though it wouldn't do us any good tonight. "You said the gallery wasn't far from you. Had you ever been there?" It did make sense that an art teacher would visit a gallery in her neighborhood.

"It isn't so close," Constance said. "When he mentioned the name, I had a vague feeling of driving by the place, but I'm sure I've never been."

"It seemed like you and Mr. Clarkson might have had a disagreement," I said. "What was it about?"

She didn't react badly to the question, intrusive as it was, but merely waved it away with a swipe of her hand. "It was nothing. He complained he hadn't had a chance to talk to Zoey yet this evening." Constance shook her head, and her long gray hair moved like a curtain in the breeze, peeking out from behind her on either side. "I told him it was Zoey's wedding. I was sure she'd get to everyone, but tonight she was with friends she hadn't seen in ages. I told him not to be so selfish."

I smiled despite the seriousness of the conversation. I remembered her shaking finger, scolding the man like the schoolteacher she was.

Tom rose. "Thank you. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, you can let me know in the morning."

I stood as well, and we headed for the door. Tom paused, swinging it open. "I'm police, so I tell everyone the same thing all the time. Lock your door."

I looked at Constance, who was also standing. She seemed amused and not alarmed. I didn't put the chances of her complying at more than fifty-fifty. "He does say that," I echoed. "All the time."

She smiled and nodded, closing the door behind us. We stood silently, listening for the lock, which finally clicked into place.

* * *

"Who now?" I asked Tom as we stood in the hallway outside Constance Marshall's door.

"We keep going. The later it gets, the more likely people are to be sleeping. Who else have you got on this floor?"

I pointed to the room across the hall from Constance's. "Jamie," I said. "Then Pete. Next to Pete, Jamie's nephew Dan. Bill Lascelle is on the other side of the hall next to Constance. I put you at the end of that row. Do you want to see your—"

"Thank you." He pecked me on the forehead. "But I don't know if I'll be using a bedroom tonight. Let's try nephew Dan. Do you know him?" We were already walking toward Dan's door.

"I used to know him when we were kids and he came to Busman's Harbor to visit his grandparents, but until tonight, I'd hadn't seen him in"—I did some quick calculating—"twenty years. His name is Daniel Dawes. He lives in California, grew up there, though he's been to Busman's Harbor often to visit family. And he was sitting right next to Mr. Clarkson when his attack began."

"That guy. I saw him when I first reached the victim."

"Did you notice anything particular about him?"

"Yeah. He didn't look surprised or upset, and he didn't make a move to help."

"Hmm."

Tom knocked on Dan's door. No answer. Tom knocked again. Harder. "Where could he be?"

I put my ear to the door. "In the shower?" I didn't hear a thing, and even if I could have, there would be no way to distinguish the sound of the shower from the sound of the rain against the bedroom windows. I turned to Tom and shrugged. "Pete's room connects to his. I doubt it's locked. We could go in that way."

Tom gave a sharp shake of his head. "It hasn't come to that. We won't be sneaking into Mr. Dawes's room. He needs to admit us. The connecting doors can be locked, right?"

I nodded.

"Then let's hope Mr. Dawes locked his, like a sane person. Who's next?"

* * *

I crossed the hall to the room next to Constance Marshall. "Bill Lascelle. He's playing the guitar for the ceremony tomorrow. He's an old friend of Zoey's, a mentor."

"Where's he from?"

"Denver. I did see him talking to Mr. Clarkson during the cocktail party."

Tom nodded that he'd understood and then knocked.

Bill Lascelle opened the door right away. He was still dressed in casual pants and the collared, cotton shirt he'd worn at the rehearsal dinner. He'd added a navy-blue sweater.

"I'm Tom Flynn," Tom said, not making the same mistake twice. "You know Julia."

Bill looked at me, the questions clear on his face. "We met at the rehearsal, yes."

"I'm with the Maine State Police," Tom said. "Can we come in and speak to you for a moment?"

Lascelle's brows flew up to his hairline. Like his temples, the brows were laced with gray. He said, "Of course," and stepped backward, out of the doorway. We followed him in, and Tom shut the door.

There was a laptop open on the desk and a phone plugged in beside it. Bill closed the laptop before he sat on the bed, gesturing for Tom and me to take the chairs. "To what do I owe the honor?" He was relaxed, smiling, and deeply curious. He didn't seem like a man who had anything to hide.

"You were acquainted with the man who was taken ill at dinner." Tom said it as a statement, not a question.

"Acquainted is a strong word," Bill responded. "I talked to him briefly during the cocktail hour. Why do you ask?"

"I am sorry to tell you he's dead." Tom's tone was very formal, serious, cop-like.

Bill was clearly taken aback. I would have sworn he was surprised. "How terrible. Was it an allergic reaction? That was the rumor this evening."

"I'm not a doctor," Tom said, perfectly straight-faced. After all, it was true. "I prefer not to speculate." That was a total lie.

Bill shifted on the bed. "How can I help?"

"We're trying to find some background on the dead man."

Bill was immediately skeptical. "Why are you gathering background, as you say? We have no phone or internet. There's no way for you to communicate back to the mainland."

Tom was silent for a moment, clearly weighing what he should and shouldn't say. "We're gathering information so when the victim goes back to the mainland tomorrow, we can send it along with him to make the medical examiner's job easier."

"You mean he's still here?" Lascelle wasn't alarmed. He seemed like a cool, calm guy, which made his angry words with the victim earlier in the evening even more interesting.

"Until the morning," Tom said. "Because of the storm. Tell me, what did you speak about?"

"Everything and nothing," Bill said. "The weather in Maine. Where we're from. How great the bride and groom are. Wedding small talk."

"What did he say about the bride and groom?" I asked, especially since neither of them claimed to know him.

"The usual stuff. Handsome couple." Bill paused for a moment, considering. "He said he'd never met Jamie."

"But he did know Zoey?" I pressed.

Bill shrugged, which caused him to bounce a little on the mattress. "I assumed. He didn't say he didn't know her. He must have known someone to be invited, right?"

That appeared to be a good question.

"Did the man tell you his name?" Tom asked.

"Yes," Lascelle said, "but I'm not sure I recall it correctly. Kent Clark? No, that can't be it. I'm thinking of Superman."

I smiled at the joke. "Did he say what he did for a living?"

Lascelle cast his eyes heavenward, as if remembering was a chore. The conversation had happened only five hours earlier. "I think he said he had owned a gallery in LA in the past, but now he was retired. That gave us some common ground because I show pieces in galleries from time to time."

"I thought you ran a business like Zoey's," I said, surprised.

"That's true. I have a commercial pottery business in Denver. We do large volume in-house and license our designs to manufacturers that sell worldwide. Zoey worked for me a few years ago. We became friends, and she's called on me from time to time as she's built Lupine Design."

"For design advice or business advice?" I was taking us off track, but I was genuinely curious. Tom shifted with impatience in his seat.

"Both," Bill answered, "though not so much recently about the business." He looked at me. "I understand you're running that side of Lupine now."

I agreed that I was and told him that after the wedding, I'd like to connect with him. I'd love to have someone who was successful in the space to ask for advice. He looked pleased.

"If you're a commercial potter, what did you have to discuss with a gallery owner or a former gallery owner?" Tom put us back on track.

"I also do one-of-a-kind, fine-art pieces that are in many galleries and a few museums, I'm proud to say."

That was interesting, the combination of art and commerce, practicing on both sides of an artificial divide.

"You were seen having an argument with the deceased," Tom said. "What caused that?"

Bill didn't answer right away. Finally, he spoke. "He annoyed me. He said something about ceramics couldn't be fine art. It was an ignorant thing to say, especially for someone who claimed to have owned an art gallery. I set him straight."

I couldn't decide if Mr. Clarkson had a talent for getting under people's skin, or if Constance and Bill were particularly sensitive. It seemed like it might be both.

"Did you see or talk the man after the cocktail party?" Tom asked.

"No. I didn't see him again until he was flat on the ground, and you were dragging him behind that counter while the best man pounded on his chest." Lascelle crossed his arms. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Tom stood up. "No, thank you."

I followed suit. "Let me know if you need anything. Towels, water, another blanket."

"Internet would be good," Bill said. "I'm trying to do a bit of business back home. But I doubt there's anything you can do about that." He gestured toward the window, which framed a black sky and transmitted the drumbeat of the rain.

"No, I'm sorry."

At the door, Tom said his thing about locking it. Bill's eyebrows rose again, but his hand was on the knob on his side of the door. "Goodnight," he said and closed it. The click of the lock followed immediately.