CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ifound Tom and Binder at a table in the main salon, deep in conversation. From what I overheard as I came closer, Tom was finishing up briefing Lieutenant Binder on everything that had happened during the night.

"Was it murder?" I asked before they could speak.

"It wasn't an allergic reaction," Binder answered. "Tom's instincts were correct there. And the victim definitely took a needle to the back of his ear. Good catch by Dawes. Beyond that, the medical examiner can't say until he's back in his facility. So we're treating the death as suspicious and your dining pavilion as a crime scene."

As he talked, I looked out the window and watched Livvie attempt to get her dress from the little house. A state trooper stopped her and urged her back in the direction of Windsholme. Livvie argued, gesticulating and pointing. Finally, worn down, he escorted her across the lawn to get her dress.

"Why are we going ahead with this wedding?" I asked. "And more important, how do I know the guests and my staff and contractors are safe?"

"I'll be here," Binder said calmly. "Check out my suit."

I'd registered something was different about his appearance, but it wasn't until he pointed it out that I noticed that his usual sports jacket had been dispensed with and he was wearing a rather handsome and well-fitting charcoal suit.

I nodded my approval, and Binder went on. "I brought Tom's suit. Four more detectives will be here, appropriately dressed. There will be half a dozen Busman's Harbor police here, too, already invited as guests of Jamie's. They'll be briefed. I'm going to talk to Jamie and Pete after this." Binder caught the look on my face. "Don't worry. We clean up nicely."

I tried for a more neutral expression. Did I want this wedding to go on? The answer was yes, because Zoey and Jamie did. What was I going to do with five extra police detectives?

Not the time to be thinking about the seating chart, Julia.

"There is an advantage to having cell service and the internet," Binder said. "And access to databases. Fingerprints will confirm his identity, but we know a whole lot about Kenneth Clark aka Kendall Clarkson."

Tom looked like he was sitting upright due to willpower alone. I wondered if Binder noticed. Would I be able to persuade Tom to take a nap, or at least a shower, before the wedding? It was unlikely duty would allow for it.

"Clarkson's well known by California and federal authorities," Binder was saying. "Mostly white-collar crimes. Selling the same piece of artwork a dozen or so times, and then not paying the owner once. That sort of thing. He's been a guest in both California state and federal prisons a dozen times."

Tom nodded. "I told you we had a similar story here involving two guests—selling the artwork and not paying the artist and his agent. Were there also complaints from women that he'd robbed them or conned them out of money?"

"No," Binder said, "but from what you told me, the complaint from Constance Marshall was to local LAPD forty years ago, and Clarkson was never charged or tried. Nothing I've found goes back that far."

"Zoey thinks Clarkson may have done the same thing to her mom," I told them. "Left and took what little she had."

"If that's the case," Tom said, "he doesn't seem to care about the money particularly. He doesn't target rich women. At least he didn't back then."

"More like vulnerable women," I said.

"Vulnerable women who are artists or at least connected to the art world in some way," Tom added.

"Was he in prison when Zoey was born?" I asked.

"First thing I confirmed," Binder said. "Five-year stretch started two months before Zoey was born. He served the full sentence."

That fit with Zoey's mom's story. I wondered, which was worse? To have a con man pretend to be the father you would never meet, or to meet your father, spend one, uncertain hour with him, and then have him murdered? I would personally have been happier with the status quo. Zoey hadn't expected her father at her wedding and would have been fine if he hadn't come. But I couldn't pretend to know what Zoey would have chosen.

"Will you do a DNA test if the fingerprints are inconclusive?" I asked.

"The fingerprints should be pretty good," Binder said. "You both properly noticed the absence of swelling of the corpse. But we will do DNA. We have samples from Clarkson in the system to compare. It will take longer but will also be more conclusive."

"Is there a way Zoey can get the DNA results? Can you take her DNA and compare it? Or get her a sample of his DNA to submit for testing on her own?"

I didn't miss Tom's doubtful expression, but Binder was more encouraging. "It will take a lot of time, and paperwork, and maybe a judge's order, but since she may have been his nearest relative, perhaps it can be done. I'll see what I can do."

Through the window, I saw one of the crime-scene techs straighten up and shout something to the trooper standing across from him. The trooper came toward Windsholme at a jog. We got to the front porch in time to hear him call, "Lieutenant, sergeant, we've found something!"

* * *

I wasn't allowed to get close. Binder and Tom squinted at a small object on the very edge of the lawn where it turned to woods. There was a lot of standing around and measuring distances. While I watched, I was relieved to see the medical examiner and marine-patrol officers roll a gurney down the lawn toward the dock with a black body bag on it. The medical examiner stopped and conferred with Lieutenant Binder, then looked at whatever it was they had found.

I was aware of the tick-tick-tick of the clock. I had to get on with it.

I went to help the florist, who was stringing the elaborate garland down the grand staircase. I was up on a ladder when I heard footsteps behind me. "Can you come down for a minute?" Tom steadied the ladder. Binder stood at his shoulder.

"Just let me get this"—I grunted with the effort—"wire around the banister." The florist had gone to fetch the swag for the arch. Taking advantage of her absence and a momentary lull in the busy foyer, I asked, "What did you find? The needle?"

"Not yet," Tom answered. "It was an empty refill bottle for e-cigarettes. There would have been enough nicotine in there to kill a person."

My eyes widened as I took this in. "You can buy enough poison in a smoke shop to kill someone?"

"So the ME tells us." Binder said. "Personally, I've never seen a case of purposeful nicotine poisoning before. And we may not have seen one now. The medical examiner will let us know."

"How long will that take?" I asked.

Binder shrugged. "Days, probably. If he'd ingested something containing nicotine, there might be a chance the pathologist could smell it in the stomach contents. But since we think it was injected, the only indication will be in the body chemistry."

I thought for a moment. "Dan Dawes told us he was out on the back porch having a smoke during the storm. Might he have thrown the empty bottle into the woods? Did you notice a package of cigarettes in his room?" I asked Tom.

"No," he answered, "but I didn't see any vaping apparatus, either."

"Wait a minute." Lieutenant Binder pulled his phone back out and went scrolling through his notes. "Did you say Dan Dawes?"

"That's right, Daniel Dawes," Tom answered. "He was the one who was sitting next to Clarkson when he keeled over."

Binder was still scrolling. "I didn't catch the name before, or I wasn't following. But I do recognize it. Daniel Dawes—lives in Los Angeles, right? There's a complaint from him against Clarkson from ten years ago. He said he paid a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for some arty pottery that was never delivered."

* * *

It can't be, I thought, as I followed the men up the stairs. Not possible. Could Dan Dawes be the person who'd bought Bill Lascelle's artwork and been swindled by Kendall Clarkson? It seemed so improbable, yet this case seemed to swirl in on itself like a whirlpool.

Dan Dawes lived in Los Angeles.

Dan Dawes was rich.

When asked if he collected art, Dan had said he "dabbled."

The groomsmen were in Jamie's room, fully dressed in their tuxedos, with the boutonnieres in their lapels. The three of them looked so handsome. The tuxedo even smoothed out Pete's rounder figure.

"Julia!" Jamie frowned when he saw me. "Why aren't you dressed?"

"I'm on my way there," I reassured him. "Just this one stop."

"Mr. Dawes, I'm Lieutenant Binder, Maine State Police Major Crimes Unit." Binder stuck out a hand.

"I gathered," Dan said, shaking it.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions. Maybe we could go to your room here. It won't take long."

Dan looked at Jamie, who smiled. "Sure."

Dan's bedroom was as neat as a pin, no clothes littered about, no shaving things on the vanity in the bathroom. He was packed and ready to leave the island when the Jacquie II sailed tonight.

We huddled together in the center of the room. Binder had promised to be quick. They hadn't asked me to come along, but they hadn't told me to go away, either.

"I understand that you're a smoker," Binder began. "What brand do you smoke?"

I was interested that Binder didn't ask the direct question—cigarettes or e-cigarettes.

"American Spirits." Dan answered without hesitation.

"Can you show me your pack?" Binder sounded casual, like he might try to bum a smoke.

Dan raised an eyebrow in inquiry but played along. "Sure."

I could have sworn there was nothing in his inside pockets, the tuxedo jacket fell so nicely on him. But he pulled out a dark yellow package of cigarettes, only slightly crumbled.

"Thank you," Tom said. "You can put them away."

"You were sitting next to Mr. Clarkson when his attack began, is that correct?" Binder asked.

Dan nodded.

"And you had never met Mr. Clarkson before?" Binder put the question deliberately, not like he was confirming the information. More like he was giving Dan a chance to change his story.

Dan was a smart man, a man who noticed subtleties. He swallowed, and a series of emotions crossed his face in quick succession—doubt, fear, and then resolution. He shrugged inside the jacket, squaring his shoulders, and looked directly at the lieutenant. "I suspect you wouldn't be asking that if you didn't know something different."

Binder nodded. "Why don't you tell me about it."

"I assume you've discovered that I had an unpleasant interaction with Mr. Clarkson ten years ago." Binder nodded, and Dan went on. "I was stupid. I had money in my pocket for the first time in my life and a big, sterile office space I wanted to look a little classier, a little warmer. I had always been interested in ceramics and glass, but I never had money to spend on it. A decorator took me to a preview for Lascelle's show. I bought every piece on the spot. Except, I didn't, as it turned out."

"What happened?" Tom asked.

"I suspect you know what happened if you have the complaint. I gave Clarkson the money, a cashier's check. I later learned you're supposed to present the check on delivery of the art. Live and learn. Clarkson never delivered. He disappeared. Look, you can't think that I killed him for it. It was ten years ago, and I've more than recovered from the loss. I'm sorry I didn't tell you." He looked at Tom and me. "But it meant nothing to me. All I ever wanted was to forget about it."

"Yet you reported it to the police at the time," Binder said.

"I had to for insurance purposes. I knew I'd never see the money or the artwork again. As it turned out, the insurance didn't pay out, either. I had no proof I'd ever owned the ceramics."

"Nonetheless, it must have been a shock to see Clarkson here," Tom said.

"It wasn't. He'd aged. His hair had gone white, and I'd never seen him with the mustache. I only met with him face-to-face twice. I wasn't sure it was him until he sat down beside me and introduced himself."

"What did you say?" I asked, fascinated.

"At first, I ignored him. I was having a nice night with my grandparents, whom I hardly ever get to see. It was my uncle's wedding rehearsal. I wanted it to be fun."

Something in his voice made me say, "And then?"

"And then, he started bragging to my dad about what a big deal he was, how he owned this gallery in LA, showed famous artists. I sat there with my blood boiling. Finally, I turned to him and demanded, ‘Do you know who I am?' At that very moment, he turned red, gasped, and fell off the bench. You guys ran over. I thought you were going to Heimlich him, but instead Pete started banging on his chest and then you dragged him behind the counter. End scene. Can I go now?"

"Just a moment," Tom said. "You were right next to him when it happened. Did you see anything, anything at all that might have precipitated the event?"

Dan shook his head. "Nothing. As I've said, the waiter delivered his Manhattan. Clarkson said, ‘Thank you, Jordan.' I asked for a gin and tonic. The waiter moved off. Clarkson was on the ground. The end."

"He called the waiter by his name?" Tom was surprised. "You didn't mention that before."

"Didn't I?" Dan replied. "I thought I did."