CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Could any of what Clarkson told either Lascelle or Dawes be true?" Binder asked.

I shook my head, but it was Tom who spoke. "Clarkson was a bad guy, a scammer of artists, a user of vulnerable women, all his life. If his mouth was moving, he was lying. He was stirring up trouble right to the end, as it turned out."

I didn't disagree. Though I was sorry he was murdered, and especially about the time and place, it was hard to argue that the world wasn't better off without Kendall Clarkson. However awful this whole mess had been, he hadn't gotten to complete what turned out to be his final scam on my friend. Speaking of whom, I needed to get back to my bridesmaid duties.

"Nothing from the ME?" Binder asked Tom.

Tom looked at his phone and shook his head. "I'll call again."

He headed out the door, Binder went to find the rest of the team, and I went in search of Zoey.

As I passed through the main salon, I was happy to see the catering team had put out coffee, and in lieu of the ruined cake, the chocolate-covered toffee squares and other snacks, sweet and savory, we'd planned to serve before the guests boarded the Jacquie II for home.

Most people had scattered to Windsholme's big front porch and the lawn. I hoped the din of conversation coming from out there meant they were recovering from our most recent drama.

The DJ had put on some calming, light music. When I passed the entrance to the dining room, a longtime member of our waitstaff was mopping the floor. I called out a heartfelt thank-you, more grateful than ever for good employees and good contractors who knew what to do and kept everything running as smoothly as they could.

When I checked in the kitchen, the uniformed state troopers were eating with the waitstaff amid much joking and hilarity. The caterers were packing their plastic containers with every bottle and jar and piece of equipment they'd brought to the island, preparing to load them onto the Jacquie II when it was time to go.

Jordan was in the corner of the kitchen, talking to the tall woman who was packing a box with spice jars. He cast a look over his shoulder. "Julia, come and meet my mom!" He came to the center of the room and dragged me toward her. I hadn't seen it before, but when I looked at the two side by side, the resemblance was obvious. They had the same sandy-colored brows and widely spaced eyes. I didn't think the woman's hair was so dark naturally.

"Mrs. Thomas, I'm so pleased to meet you." I put out my hand.

She took it. "Same. I'm Mel."

"Thank you so much for all you've done here today under what I'm sure were the most difficult circumstances. The food was amazing. Jamie and Zoey are thankful, and so am I."

"That's lovely of you to say."

She didn't say anything else, so I went on. "If there's anything I can do to help you get settled in, don't hesitate to ask." They'd need more than her catering job to get through the winter. "In the fall, maybe I can suggest some places for you and Jordan to apply for work."

"Thanks. I'm not sure we'll be here then. We haven't decided. We're playing it by ear."

I was surprised. I could tell by his look that Jordan was surprised, too. He'd made the move sound permanent when he spoke to me. But Maine winters weren't for everyone. Perhaps the cold spring in a tent had given his mother second thoughts.

"Excuse me," I said. "I have to find the bride."

* * *

Zoey was in my apartment. Eloise was tidying her hair and reapplying her makeup. Livvie was there, and so was Amelia. Zoey was smiling into the mirror.

I rushed to her. "I am so sorry."

Her smile grew even bigger, and then she laughed. "Don't be. This has turned out to be a wedding no one will ever forget." She could tell I wasn't convinced. "Honestly, Julia, we'll laugh about that cake someday."

The mood in the room was decidedly upbeat. I let out a long breath I felt like I'd been holding since the fight.

"I told Zoey about our father," Amelia said. "Our possible father. You asked me to wait until after the wedding, but I thought the wedding might be over, and I didn't want to miss the chance."

Zoey reached over and took Amelia's hand. "Don't move!" Eloise hissed.

"Isn't it exciting that we might be sisters?" Zoey looked from Livvie to me and back. "I've always been jealous of you two."

Amelia was beaming. I'd known Zoey would be kind. I didn't know whether to root for Kendall Carson to be their father or root for him not to be. I just hoped there wasn't another disappointment ahead for the two of them.

"What do you want to do?" I asked Zoey. "I can tell Captain George to start the Jacquie II's engines and send these people home." The ceremony and meal were over. We'd managed to meet the main goals of the day.

"Absolutely not!" Zoey answered. "It's my wedding day. We're going to get this back on track. Next, I'm going to throw the bouquet. And, Julia and Amelia, you're going to be downstairs, trying to catch it."

Through almost twenty years of single life, I had never been a fan of that particular tradition, but if Zoey wanted it, we were going to do it. Eloise finished applying Zoey's lipstick, brushed some power on her nose, and we stood to go.

Zoey stopped on the lower landing of the grand staircase overlooking the foyer, a perfect balcony. I called everyone to order, chasing them from the porch, the lawn, and the main salon. Zoey looked dramatic up there as she urged for the single women to gather. She motioned Amelia and me out on the floor, where we joined the others. Fee and Vee invariably took part in this ritual, making exaggerated reaching and pushing motions that always got a laugh. My mother stood in the ring of spectators. She never, ever would have participated, even in the years after my father died and before Captain George came along. She smiled at me encouragingly.

Zoey wound up and whipped the bouquet right at me, overhand. I put my hands up to protect my face, and the flowers landed in my arms. "You're next!" she shouted, and everyone cheered.

I smiled as graciously as I could, the good sport, but the voice in my head cynically chirped, fat chance. There was no wedding on the horizon. Then I remembered the theoretical conversation about the theoretical wedding with Tom the night before. But, as I knew, theoretical conversations don't always become real ones.

Everyone applauded, and the DJ, bless him, put on a rousing tune. Zoey flew down the stairs and into Jamie's arms to lead the dancing. The rest of the crowd joined in enthusiastically, and the foyer and dining room thundered with the sounds of shouts and whoops and dancing feet.

Tom appeared from somewhere, looked at the bouquet, and raised his eyebrows wordlessly. He took the flowers from me, leaned in, and kissed me. "I have to work," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I know. I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

An hour later, Binder's detectives moved through the crowd, collecting contact information for everyone who had been at the rehearsal dinner. Zoey had their addresses, already written out on the envelopes that would contain her thank-you notes. She probably had their phone numbers and emails too, except perhaps for a few plus-ones, but the police had their procedures.

The detectives' movement through the crowd had the effect of breaking up the party. The French doors were still open, though the evening was getting cooler. People gathered in the main salon, talking, picking up the centerpieces they'd won by having the closest birthday, snacking on the cookies. No one mentioned the murder or the fight. I was sure they'd talk of nothing else when they got on the boat, but for now, they were being respectful to Zoey and Jamie.

The bar was closed. We'd run out of liquor, something I'd never expected. The bartender offered to run down to the dining pavilion and collect the bottles there, but I nixed it. Enough was enough. Besides, we were out of ice.

Tom and Binder were in the billiards room, quietly discussing their next steps. Tom was beyond exhausted, and Binder was clearly deflated by the prospect of losing all his witnesses and suspects to the real world.

"The medical examiner called back," Tom told me, when I sat in one of the satiny chairs and took off my shoes. "He won't know what killed Clarkson until the lab work comes back. That will be days. But he did say that our corpse died from an injection of a poisonous substance; we just don't know which one. It was a murder. He also said that, based on my description of what happened after Clarkson fell off the bench, it wasn't likely to have been insulin. Much more likely, but certainly not definitely, it was nicotine."

"Then not Constance Marshall." I was relieved. I liked Constance.

"Not Constance Marshall with insulin," Binder corrected.

"The ME also said if it was nicotine, it wouldn't have acted instantly. It would have been administered twenty to thirty minutes before to have that affect." Tom looked at each of us to make sure we'd understood the significance of that.

"So not Dan or Jordan," I said. I liked them, too.

"Not Dan or Jordan at the picnic table." Binder was beginning to irritate me, but he wasn't wrong. "Either one of them could have done it before."

"No one saw Dan Dawes anywhere near our victim during the cocktail party," Tom reminded him. "Jordan was serving drinks. He might have been near Clarkson."

"I did see Jordan near Clarkson, when he served a drink to Bill," I said. "How much would a needle like that hurt? The hole was tiny."

Tom knew the answer. "The ME said, based on the size, it probably felt to Clarkson like a bee sting."

Something shimmered in my mind, a remembered moment I couldn't quite catch. "When did Clarkson last get out of prison?"

Binder squinched up his face, remembering. "Just over a year ago. He did eighteen months for writing some bad checks to an elderly woman for some antique paintings. Clarkson wouldn't have got that much if it weren't for his priors."

"Here's what we know about Kendall Clarkson," I said, ticking on my fingers. "One, he's a con man. He seems prone to art cons, and that's what he's gone to prison for. Two, when he's out of prison, he takes advantage of vulnerable women. Three, he's been out of his last stint in prison for over a year. Where's he been? What's he been doing?"

"Attempting to con Zoey," Tom answered. "Though only lately."

"I think he saw articles about Zoey's success on-line. He did some research, found her wedding announcement, decided to come here."

"Makes sense," Binder said.

"He didn't seem to care if his previous victims were successful," Tom argued. "Constance Marshall was at the beginning of her teaching career, had very little money. Zoey's mother worked as a waitress. Amelia Gerhart didn't have much money, either. She's a kid."

"Agreed," I said. "Their lack of resources and maybe a related lack of confidence made them vulnerable."

"We don't know where Clarkson's been," Binder said. "He served his full term this last time. No parole. No parole officer to keep track of him."

Tom saw where I was going. "He's been living with a woman. And robbing her."

Binder was unconvinced. "It had to have been someone who was here last night. And someone who knew Clarkson would be here because whoever it was brought the nicotine and the syringe. That makes it much more likely it's someone we've already spoken to. Not a mystery woman."

"Not a mystery woman," I said.