CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Neither of those conversations were particularly helpful," I said once we'd moved away from Bill's door.

Tom stopped walking and looked at me. "Ah, but they were," he said. "Now we know that both of them are lying."

"How do you know that?"

Tom put a hand behind his head and applied pressure to his neck. He'd had a long day, too. "Maybe not lying, but not telling the whole truth. Constance was wound tight as a clock. Bill was unnaturally calm. Neither gave a satisfactory explanation for the sharp words you witnessed."

I wanted to follow up on that, but by then we'd crossed the hall and Tom was knocking on Dan Dawes's door again. There was still no answer. Tom put his ear to the door, then frowned, though whether with puzzlement or concern, I couldn't tell. He rattled the doorknob, with no results. "Where now?" he asked me.

"Third floor. Friends of Zoey's. Also from California. But I'm not sure why we'd talk to them. I never saw them with our Mr. Clarkson. They were glued to Zoey's side all evening. When I came upstairs the first time, they were in my apartment with her. He's an ex of Zoey's." That got me a cocked eyebrow. "Her college boyfriend. I have the impression he's not over her. Wait until you see his girlfriend."

"I noticed." Tom widened his eyes at me. He'd seen the same resemblance I had. Of course, he had. Noticing was his business and not something he could turn off.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I led him to their room and knocked.

"Just a minute!" Derek called from inside. "Who is it?"

I looked at Tom, who nodded for me to speak. "It's Julia. And my boyfriend, Tom. I just want to check on—"

I was saved from having to make up something to check on when the door swung open.

Amelia was in the bed, a sheet pulled around her. I was relieved to see she was wearing the Snowden Family Clambake T-shirt. Derek was bare-chested, wearing the shorts he'd worn to the rehearsal, which were askew and obviously hastily pulled on for the purposes of opening the door.

"Sorry to disturb," Tom said smoothly, with the air of a man who has been met at a door many times by half-naked people, which, undoubtedly, he had.

Tom introduced himself, again carefully without using the word detective, and explained we were gathering information about the man who had the medical incident at dinner.

"He died," Derek said. "Julia told us."

"Yes," Tom acknowledged, "that's true."

"Why are you talking to us?" Amelia was the more hostile of the two of them.

"Did either of you talk to him before it happened?" Tom asked. "Maybe on the boat or at the cocktail party?"

"No," Amelia called from the bed, in a tone meant to end conversation.

"No," Derek reiterated, his voice a little friendlier, or at least curious. "Why? Is he a friend of Zoey's?"

I wasn't sure how Tom would handle that, but Derek answered his own question. "Must be if he's from California."

"That's where you know Zoey from, right?" I butted in. "You met in college." I'd intended the remark to lead in to a conversation. Instead, it came out more like a non sequitur.

Derek didn't seem concerned with the niceties of conversational flow. "Yeah. Cal Arts. We met our first day of freshman year. Zoey was just so cool."

A loud sigh came from the bed. The kind of sigh you make when your grandpa winds up to tell you a story for the fifty-seventh time.

Derek was undeterred. "I didn't know her history then. About her mom and the foster homes and all. Later freshman year, she had to testify in court against her mother's killer. She was so tough, but she needed support. I needed to protect her."

He talked in terms of his need, not Zoey's. He needed to protect her, but did she need his protection? Still, it helped me understand Zoey's loyalty to this ex. She was tough, but confronting her mother's killer, a man she loathed and had lived in the same small apartment with, must have been unbelievably stressful. And to do it when she was in college miles away from where she'd grown up. She'd aged out of the foster system. She had no support. I could see her needing someone to lean on.

"You were an art student like Zoey," I said. "What do you do now?"

Amelia answered instead of Derek. "He's an artist's agent. A big-deal one."

Derek blushed modestly. "I had the eye and the hand of an artist, but not the personality. I couldn't stand to be alone in a studio all day long. I needed to be out, talking to people, making connections, you know? Sort of by accident, I learned to use my artist's eye in a different way. A lot of what I do now is putting artists together with manufacturers, doing deals that way. I've been telling Zoey for years she should have her stuff manufactured in China, go for volume, big retailers, Target, Home Goods, and the like. I've done that for other clients."

Zoey's pottery was hand-thrown by her or by an artist in her studio or made in a mold to her exacting specifications. Though the dinnerware came in sets, each piece was unique. That's what made it special. On the other hand, mass manufacturing would make her designs available to a lot more people.

Amelia snorted with impatience.

"Did Zoey ever show any interest?" I asked, curious. "In licensing, I mean?"

"Not yet," Derek admitted. "But we're still in touch. Still talking."

Amelia rolled her eyes.

"I also represent fine artists to galleries," Derek said. "My business is about fifty-fifty."

"You're an artist agent in LA?" Tom said. "We've been told the dead man has or had a gallery there, maybe called Kendall's? Are you aware of it?"

Derek shook his head. "No." Then he reconsidered. "Maybe there used to be one? Before my time, really, but I vaguely remember something."

His response was punctuated by a lightning flash outside the small, third-floor window. I pressed my lips together, annoyed. If we had internet, we could check out the prior or current existence of this gallery in minutes. Life without the World Wide Web was interesting.

"I'm an artist in LA, too!" Amelia called from the bed.

Tom swung around toward her. "Did you know the man?"

"No."

He backed slowly out of the doorway. "Thanks. Sorry to disturb. Lock the door. I'm a cop, I have to say—"

"Don't worry. We will!" Amelia yelled after us, and I was sure they would.

"That was interesting," I said to Tom.

"Not really. They said they never talked to the guy."

I laughed. "You know what I mean."

"Is there anyone else up here?" he asked.

"The waiter, Jordan Thomas. He did serve Mr. Clarkson. And he's from LA. But I asked Jordan if he knew the man's name earlier, and he said no. There's no light coming from under his door. He's had a long, hard day and has to be up early to serve breakfast. Do you want to talk to him anyway?"

Tom glanced back over his shoulder and down the hallway. "We haven't reached the point of banging on doors and waking people up yet. Maybe later."

"Later? It must be eleven at least."

"Later than now," Tom answered, but at least he smiled. "Let's check to make sure his door is locked." We walked back down the hallway, and Tom rattled Jordan's door. "Good," he said when it didn't open. We turned around and started toward the stairs.

"How old is Zoey?" he asked. "I always thought she was our age."

"She is. Thirty-seven. Why?"

"Fifteen years. That's a long time to be in love with your college crush."

I'd been in love with my middle-school crush for twenty years, but I didn't remind Tom. No point in shoving it in his face. He had history. I had history. The important thing was the present.

* * *

When we reached the second floor, we went back and knocked on Dan Dawes's door.

"Come in!" he called. "About time."

"About time for what?" Tom stood in the doorway.

"Oh." We were not who he'd been expecting. "About time for some groom, best man, and groomsman hijinks," Dan answered. "But I'm guessing that's not why you two are here."

"No, sorry." Tom apologized as we entered the room. "You know Julia. I'm her boyfriend, Tom." He ran through the whole setup once again. He was state police, trying to get background on the deceased and so on. Tom's speech had improved with every interview. Too bad this was the last one.

Dan's brown hair was shiny and wet. Perhaps he had been in the shower. But he was wearing the same plaid shorts, shirt, and sweater he'd had on earlier that evening. Who takes a shower and puts on the clothes they just removed?

"Do you know where Jamie and Pete are?" Dan asked, mildly interested. He didn't say anything about the dead man.

"Jamie's with Zoey," I answered. "And Pete—"

"Is doing an errand for me," Tom finished. Though what Pete would have been doing with the storm raging outside, I couldn't imagine. "What about you?" Tom continued. "We stopped by earlier, and I don't think you were here."

"I stepped outside," he said. "For some air."

"Outside?" I couldn't think of a more miserable place.

"There's a little porch off the dining room, very protected," Dan answered.

This was mostly true, though the way the wind was blowing, someone who had gone out there couldn't completely avoid getting wet. It explained his shiny hair. Belatedly, I noticed a dripping windbreaker hanging on the back of the desk chair. "I went for a smoke," he confessed. "Filthy habit. I'm addicted. Rain or shine. I thought you'd be happier if I didn't indulge in the house."

A smoke? He'd been gone for at least half an hour.Tom didn't say anything, though, so I followed suit.

Dan smoothed a hand over his wet head and gestured for us to sit down, which we did, side by side on the bed. He'd used the desk in his room to set up a full bar. There were bottles of scotch, bourbon, gin, and vodka, mixers like tonic, seltzer, and bottled water, and a silver ice bucket.

Dan noticed me noticing. "Can I offer you a nightcap? I haven't found any ice, but I have everything else."

I desperately wanted to say yes. I'd worked at the cocktail party and during the clambake meal and therefore hadn't had anything to drink since the sip of champagne at the rehearsal in the afternoon. I wasn't sure stone-cold sober was the way to face the events of the night.

"No, thanks," Tom said. "We won't be long."

Dan took his place in the easy chair across from us. "I do remember the man, of course. It was creepy that it happened so soon after I met him. We chatted about nothing consequential. The usual small talk."

"His name?" Tom prompted.

"Kendall Clarkson, like I told Julia."

"Did Clarkson say anything about when he arrived in Maine or where he was staying in town?" I asked.

"No. I thought he'd arrived only recently, but I'm not sure if he said that or what gave me that impression." Dan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I assumed he was a member of Zoey's family. She grew up in California."

She had. But she didn't have any family there. I didn't say this.

"Did he say what he did for a living?" Tom asked.

"Something about an art gallery," Dan answered. "I remember, I was surprised. I'd assumed he was retired."

Clarkson did look like he could be retired.

"You don't know the gallery? Maybe its name?" Tom asked.

"Sorry. I'd never heard of the gallery. My impression was that it was small. More in the nature of a hobby."

"Do you collect art?" I asked. He certainly was rich enough.

"I dabble," Dan said, "but I'm unaware of this gallery."

"Beside your family seated at the table, did anyone else come over to speak to Mr. Clarkson or otherwise come near him?" Tom asked.

Dan shook his head. "No. Just the waiter, like I told Julia earlier. That was it."

It didn't seem like there was anything more to say. Evidently, Dan felt the same because he rose from the chair. "When will Jamie and Pete be along?"

Tom and I stood as well. I was about to say, "Don't wait up," but Tom was faster. "Soon, I'm sure." With self-control, I didn't look at him in surprise.

"Why don't you lock your door while you wait, in case you drift off?" I suggested. It was an odd thing to say, but apparently not too odd. Dan nodded in response. "Roger that."

We stood in the hall until the lock tumbled. Then we walked to the landing. The storm had whipped up again. The wind wailed against the double-story window behind us, so loud we had to raise our voices to speak. At the same time, it felt like the wind and rain were also pummeling the front of the mansion, like the storm was coming from every direction all at once. Even from inside the house, I could hear the surf pounding against our dock. I was the one who was supposed to be used to storms on a small island, but I slipped my hand into Tom's for reassurance.

The door at the other end of the hallway opened, and Jamie came out of my apartment, closing it behind him. He advanced toward us. "I made Zoey tea," he said when he was close enough that we could hear him. "Constance is with her. I've come to check in."

"Great timing," Tom said. "We've just finished talking to everyone. Let's go down to the billiards room so we can bring you and Pete up to speed at the same time."

They stood aside so I could go first. My foot hovered over the top step, when down below, the front door flew open so fast it hit the wall behind it with a BANG! My breath caught, my knee buckled, and I began to tumble down the stairs.