CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ishowed Derek and Amelia to a room on the third floor. Amelia took one look, tossed her head, and sighed. The room was small, a former servant's quarters, and the bathroom was down the hall; they'd be sharing with Jordan. The furniture was sparse, a double bed on an old metal frame, a single nightstand and two hard wooden chairs. At least there was furniture, which wasn't the case with all the rooms on this floor.

I had a transitory guilty flash. I'd saved a better room on the second floor for Tom. But he'd been forced here by circumstances. He wasn't an uninvited guest.

Mom's employee discount at Linens and Pantries, where she worked in the off-season, ensured that we had plenty of sheets. I'd grabbed some before we climbed up from the second floor. I'd also grabbed a couple of clean Snowden Family Clambake Company T-shirts, which I kept around in case of emergencies. I thought this qualified.

I deposited the sheets and a wool blanket on the bed and gave them the T-shirts. The rain was deafening under the roof. Amelia and Derek hung back with every expectation that I'd make up the bed. Instead, I moved away from it. "I hope you have everything you need. Breakfast will be eight o'clock until nine in the dining room. Coffee will be up at six and available all morning." I pointed out the door to the bathroom down the hall.

"We don't have toothbrushes," Amelia blurted.

I didn't know what she thought I could do about that. They were the ones who had missed the boat. I gave them my best smile, said, "I'm so sorry," and escaped into the hallway and down the stairs.

* * *

I found Tom, Jamie, and Pete in the old men's billiards room with the corpse. The room had originally been where gentlemen went for cigars and cards or other amusements after dinner, where they wouldn't be disturbed by the fairer, yet somehow weaker sex. In the renovation, we had turned it into a large dressing room for brides and their attendants. Zoey wouldn't be using it. She, Livvie, and I would dress in my apartment.

"Everyone is settled, I—" I entered the room talking, but stopped abruptly when I saw the three men. Each was staring at the corpse in a contemplative manner. Tom had his arms folded, one hand under his chin. Jamie had his hands in his pockets, neck jutting forward. And Pete held an open palm to his forehead.

Tom looked at me. "Does that look like an allergic reaction to you?"

"I'm not a doctor," I answered reflexively, but nevertheless stepped forward to look.

The man lay on his back, as though asleep, but blue around the lips and fingertips. There was nothing of the telltale swelling, redness, or rash I would have expected from a massive allergic reaction. "No," I admitted, "it doesn't, at least not to me."

"Not to any of us, either." Jamie pulled his hands out of his pockets and let his arms swing at his sides. "There's no medic-alert bracelet. He isn't carrying an EpiPen, at least that we've found so far. Why did we think it was a reaction?"

"Because a woman yelled, ‘He's allergic,' and he was gasping for air," I answered. "His waiter told me the man had eaten his clam chowder but hadn't touched his lobster."

"So not an instantaneous reaction to the clams," Jamie said.

"No. The chowder had been eaten and the dishes cleared at least fifteen minutes before he got his meal. His table was the last one to be called."

Everyone nodded, faces still thoughtful.

"Do we know who the woman was?" I asked. "The one who screamed it was an allergy."

Jamie and Pete shook their heads.

"More to the point, did the woman know who he is?" Tom asked. "Or know anything about him, like that he might have a shellfish allergy."

"She couldn't have known him well," I pointed out. "If you were a friend, you wouldn't go back on the boat without at least inquiring how he was doing."

"He was on his own all evening," Jamie said. "I noticed that."

"Me, too. He was friendly, chatted with lots of people, but wasn't attached to any group." I looked at Tom. "What now?" He would know if any of us did.

"He's going to the medical examiner's office in Augusta for sure," Tom said. "Even without our doubts about an allergic reaction, he was probably headed there anyway. Sudden death, unknown identity, even though there were plenty of witnesses. I'll call ahead to let them know."

As his thumbs hovered over the screen, the phone rang, bursting into the tension in the room so discordantly that I jumped, heart thumping.

Tom put the phone to his ear, said, "Uh-huh," three times and then, "I understand. Good luck to you. Be safe."

"What now?" My stomach tensed again.

Tom lowered his hand with the phone still in it. "That was the Coast Guard. They won't be coming to pick up our corpse tonight. With this storm, they have their hands full taking care of living people and living people's property. They apologized and said they'd try to get here before the wedding guests tomorrow."

"The marine patrol or even the harbormaster can handle it in the morning," Jamie said.

Tom rolled his shoulders. Whatever happened, we were stuck with the corpse overnight.

The man's blazer was slung over the chair that went to the vanity table we'd put in place for the season's brides. Pete and Jamie had taken it off during the first-aid efforts and not put it back on. Tom picked the jacket up and felt all the pockets. "No wallet here," he announced. He went to the corpse and gently inserted his fingers into each of the front pants pockets, then stepped back, shaking his head.

"I walked back to the house with Dan Dawes earlier," I told them. "He happened to be sitting next to, er, him"—I pointed to the dead man—"when he fell over. Dan thinks the man's name is Kendall Clarkson, but he couldn't be sure."

Jamie raised his eyebrows at me. We'd each seen the invitation list about a hundred times. He didn't remember that name, either.

"Dan felt sure the man was from LA," I finished.

"One of Zoey's friends," Pete suggested.

"Zoey doesn't know him either." This drew a sharp look from Tom.

Before I'd arrived, the guys had turned on a few table lamps that barely lit the big room. I felt like a participant in some eerie, pagan ceremony as the four of us stood in our semicircle, looking at the body.

As if he'd read my mind, Tom said, "Julia, would you put the overhead light on?"

I did as he asked, turning on the fancy chandelier and pushing the dimmer switch to the max.

Without being asked, Jamie and Pete stepped forward and rolled the corpse onto one side so Tom could check the back pockets.

"Ah-ha!" Tom pulled a brown wallet out of the man's pocket and waved it in the air. The wallet was thin and worn at the edges. Tom opened it and rifled through the contents. "Kendall Clarkson," he read. "Address in Los Angeles."

I went over to look. The license photo was indeed the dead man. He was a little younger, had less white in his hair, and didn't have a mustache, but he was unmistakable.

"Five-ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, hair white, eyes brown. That's him," Tom said.

Jamie and Pete were slowly and carefully rolling Kendall Clarkson onto his back "Whoa! Stop." Jamie's tone demanded obedience, and Pete froze, his hands on the man's hips. "Look at this." Jamie was clearly addressing Tom, but I went over to look, too.

"Is that a needle mark?" Jamie pointed.

My eyes followed Jamie's finger. When the body had been rolled over, the man's thick, white hair had fallen back, exposing a tiny dimple behind his ear. We all peered at it, even Pete, who had to crane his neck to do so without letting go of the hips. The dimple was red and recent, with a small hole at its center.

"Yup," Tom agreed, "that's what that is."

There was a moment of stunned silence. As if to punctuate it, the wind roared, pushing a torrent of rain against the windows. "What does that mean?" My mouth was so dry, I could barely get the words out.

Tom already had his phone in hand. "It's not a place where you'd inject yourself. There are undoubtedly a lot of possible explanations. But I've seen a case like this before. This man was probably murdered." He took his phone from his pocket again and pressed the screen. The three of us stared at him. I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Tom put the phone to his ear, shook his head, and then lowered the phone, squinting at it. "No service," he said. "No cell, no internet." The wind howled again as if to highlight his words. "We're on our own."