Murder on the Brewster Flats Page 3

  I handed her a coffee and the bag. “Coffee cake muffins. Want one?”

  “You bet.” She grinned. “Hey, let’s eat out on the deck.”

  I opened the curtains and sliding glass door.

  She stepped out in her bare feet and settled onto a chair, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “That’s really bright.”

  I cranked open the umbrella and sat in a chair in the shade beside her. “Better?”

  “Better.” She took a big bite of the muffin. “Mmm.”

  “Good?”

  She tossed me a smile. “Delicious.” After a big swallow from her iced coffee, she tilted her head in my direction. “So, what’d you get me on your beachcombing adventure?”

  “I almost forgot.” I dug into my pocket and pulled out the shells I’d collected for her. She went right for the prettiest one.

  “This one’s gorgeous.” She pawed through the others. “And these are really nice, too.” A sweet expression washed over her face. “Thank you, honey.”

  “You’re welcome.” I shifted in my seat, not wanting to spoil the beautiful moment, but eager to tell her about Beckett, Mr. Waterford, Jane, and little Mason.

  She lifted one eyebrow. “What is it? You look like you’re dying to tell me something.”

  “I am.” I dove right into it, sparing no details.

  “Oh my God, Gus. You saved that boy’s life.”

  “Beckett,” I said. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “You really are my hero.”

  “Anybody would’ve—”

  “But tell me more about this treasure. What was Albert’s ancestor’s name again?”

  I smiled. “Zebediah Cook.”

  “I’d like to go to the library later this morning. Maybe I’ll look him up.” Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe I’ll figure out where that treasure is buried.”

  I laughed. “Sure, babe. After Albert’s been searching for forty years. And all the years his father and grandfather have probably been—”

  “You never know,” she said, interrupting me. “But I think you should find out where Beckett lives. And stop by to see how he’s doing later today.”

  “Yeah?” I gave her a sideways glance. “Why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “So we can find out what kind of a witch his controlling mother is. Or at least why they’re keeping him locked up, like Jane said.”

  “Ah, good idea.” I finished my muffin. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  I showered and said goodbye to my wife, who was already engrossed in a search for Zebediah Cook on her iPhone.

  “See you later, hon. I’m getting the groceries and the beach sticker. Be back in a few hours, okay?”

  “Um. Okay.” She didn’t look up.

  I chuckled and wandered out into the bright white light, remembering the map I’d studied online last week.

  The shopping plaza in East Dennis was mobbed, and it took me twice as long to get my groceries than it would have at home. That, plus I’d bought out half the store for our stay. I loaded up the trunk of the car and headed back toward Brewster. I wanted to grab the sticker before heading home and knew if I followed Stony Brook Road down to Main Street, I’d find the Brewster Town Hall. It was supposed to be just past a Mobil Station.

  Because I’d been shamed by my memory before, I plugged the address into Google Maps anyway.

  I found the Town Hall, a majestic white building set back on a long rolling lawn under the shade of mature trees. After a few wrong turns in the parking lot, I located the office in the back of the sprawling building.

  A woman stood in front of me, leaning forward to write a check on the desk. “So tired. Been driving all night. But we made it.”

  The woman behind the desk smiled. “Traffic’s bad on the weekends. It’s good you traveled overnight. Much nicer ride. You get straight through.”

  Stifling a yawn, the young woman thanked her and shuffled out the door with her beach sticker.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Morning. How can I help you? Beach sticker?”

  “Yes, please. For the next 29 days.”

  “Oh, aren’t you the lucky one?” she laughed, turning to look at the calendar. “The best deal’s the monthly rate, of course. Want to do that one?”

  “Please.”

  “You familiar with the area?”

  I shook my head. “Just Paines Creek Beach, so far. I was there this morning.”

  She looked up with wide eyes. “Oh, my. Did you see the accident?”

  “I did.”

  “That poor family. Always having troubles, you know?”

  “The Waterford family?”

  She glanced up in surprise. “Well, yes. I went to school with Marla Waterford. Well, she was McNabb, then.”

  “I see. I met Mr. Waterford. And Beckett, of course.”

  “Wait a minute. You aren’t the tourist who saved Beckett’s life, are you?”

  I stalled. Should I admit it, or just be done and walk away? I decided to tell the truth. “Yeah. I guess. I pulled the boy out of the water.”

  “Oh my. I heard that Winston Waterford is looking for you. He wanted to thank you properly, but he was so upset by the whole incident—that was his favorite sports car, too, you know—that he just drove away. He felt bad. Or so Marla said to me this morning at the coffee shop.”

  “Really?”

  “May I give her your phone number?” she asked shyly.

  “Sure.” I scribbled it down on a post-it note. “I’d be happy to stop by and pay a short visit, if they’d like.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Marla would want to give you some coffee or tea. She loves having visitors.” She frowned as she passed the sticker to me. “She doesn’t get much company these days.”

  “That so?” I said, hoping she’d say more.

  “Well, since the happenings at the school the last few years, you know? It’s alienated them from the community.”

  “Beckett’s school?”

  “Yes. He’s nineteen now, but when he was a junior and senior, well…he had some problems. Big problems.”

  “What about Jane Cook? Do you know her?”

  She looked blankly at me, and then recognized the name. “Oh. You mean old Albert’s granddaughter?”

  “Yeah. I met her and the baby this morning. Nice girl.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hmm. Not so sure about the ‘nice.’ But that baby’s awfully cute.”

  I wondered what she meant, but an elderly couple had just come in and joined the line behind me. “Thanks for the sticker. Maybe I’ll see you around town.” I glanced down at her nametag. “Cindy.”

  She flushed. “Oh, you’re most welcome, Mr.…” she looked down at her records. “Mr. LeGarde. Enjoy your stay in Brewster.”

  Chapter 7

  Back at the house, I spent a half hour putting away the groceries. I had plopped down into a chair in the living room when my cell rang. “Hello?”

  “Mr. LeGarde?”

  I shifted the phone to my other ear. “Yes? This is Gus.”

  “This is Marla Waterford. Beckett’s mom.”

  “Hello. How’s the boy doing?”

  “He’s okay, settled down for now.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Mr. LeGarde, we’d like to invite you to stop over. Just for a few minutes. Would you be able to manage that?”

  I settled into a chair in the living room. “Sure I can. I was just going to drop my wife at the library to do some research. Maybe I could swing by after that.”

  “Thank you. You can’t miss it. It’s just past The Seacrest, right off of Paines Creek Road.”

  “Okay. How’s three sound?”

  “Perfect. And of course, bring your wife if she’d like to come.”

  “Thanks, but she’s got her heart set on some research today.”

  She didn’t ask what the research was for, but moved ahead briskly. “Okay. Well, we’ll see you soon.”

  “She sounded okay,” I sa
id aloud after hanging up. “Not too much like a witch.”

  Camille came down the stairs and leaned over the side of the chair to hug me. “Who was that?”

  “Beckett’s mother. She invited me over this afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re invited too, if you want to come?”

  “No, thanks. I’m already knee deep in the history of this town. It’s fascinating. I want to talk to the librarian—who also doubles as town historian—and see what old books I should dive into.”

  I pulled her onto my lap and kissed her lips. “Maybe we should take a detour. Dive into bed instead?”

  She giggled and gently extracted herself from my arms. “I’ll give you a rain check for tonight.” She kissed my forehead. “Promise.”

  I sighed, exaggerating it a bit. “I don’t know if I can wait. I’m getting used to these daytime delights.”

  “Aw. Poor baby. But you know, anticipation makes the whole thing sweeter.”

  “I’m anticipating, all right.” I growled a little and grabbed at her.

  She waltzed backwards. “Okay, mister. Calm down now. And please, will you drive me to the library?”

  I gave up. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I looked forward to tonight with a surge of lazy lustfulness. It was really strange—and amazing—to be able to count on something happening in the bedroom without little children popping into the room, without a call from a neighbor because a horse got loose from the pasture, without an emergency call from…someone. I could get used to this kind of life.

  But then again, I had to admit, I really did miss the family. Already. Like an integral set of limbs, each one of them called to me.

  Freddie would be in her clinic most of the day, so I decided to call Siegfried later in the afternoon to check in on the whole gang. I knew he planned to work for a few more days with Lily to finish up the inside of their new log cabin, and hadn’t returned yet to work at Freddie’s vet clinic.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the library, where I dropped Camille, and then just a few more to find the Waterfords’ mansion.

  On an estate of ridiculously huge proportions, the house rambled over a manicured lawn sloping toward the shore. A few tall shade trees dotted its expanse. Sunflowers bobbed their heads along a split rail fence leading to the parking area, and blue hydrangeas bordered the foundation.

  I parked the car on white oyster shells in the corner of the parking lot and approached the wide porch steps.

  Reminiscent of a house from “Gone with the Wind,” its wraparound porch sported an abundance of white wicker furniture, lush potted plants, a round green glass table with a pitcher of something cold on it surrounded by tall etched glasses, and a bowl of ice with silver tongs.

  I stopped to admire the view, and in seconds a striking woman emerged with a platter of fancy cookies.

  “Mrs. Waterford? I’m Gus.”

  “Welcome, Gus.” She struggled with the screen door, balancing her tray.

  “Let me help you.” I took the tray and followed her to the table. “There we go. Boy, those look delicious.”

  She smiled at me, and I sensed she’d weathered some serious storms in her life. It didn’t show on her face, just in her eyes. Her complexion was creamy and unlined, as unblemished as my daughter Freddie’s, yet I figured she must be at least in her late thirties to early forties, since Beckett was nineteen. Her coal black hair which shone with a deep luster in the afternoon sun was pulled back in a loose ponytail with a wide white ribbon. Slim and fit, she wore white shorts and a blue and white striped blouse, but no shoes. Her toenails were painted shiny maroon.

  “Oh, thank you, Gus. And please, call me Marla.”

  I reached out to take her hand. “Hello, Marla.”

  She called over her shoulder. “Winn! He’s here!”

  I heard the sound of shoes coming down a staircase at a rapid clip, soon followed by the harried face of Mr. Waterford. He walked briskly to my side, swooped back his long gray hair, and held out a hand. “Mr. LeGarde. I’m so glad you could come.”

  I shook his hand. His handshake was firm, but not the type of grip men gave each other when they were trying to prove their manliness. I was always ready for that gorilla grip, because more than half the time when I met someone new, they would grind away at my fingers—piano player’s fingers, mind you—and I’d wonder if I’d ever play again. But this guy was okay, in spite of the haunted look I caught in his eyes. He seemed like a straightforward fellow.

  “Mr. Waterford,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Under much better circumstances, I might add. And please, call me Gus.”

  “Indeed. Hello, Gus,” he said. “And you may call me Winston.”

  Marla made a graceful motion with her hand. “Please, have a seat. I thought it would be nice to visit out here on the porch today.”

  “Can’t beat the view,” I said, taking in the azure sea ripped with whitecaps. High tide. Maybe I’ll go for a swim after this.

  “Lemonade?” she said, picking up the pitcher.

  “You bet,” I felt as if I needed to bring out my Sunday best manners. It was a little stiff out here on the porch, and I guessed it was because Winston had something to say and couldn’t wait to get it out.

  He fidgeted with his glass when his wife poured, added some extra ice, and set it down again. Moisture pooled down the side onto the green glass table top. “Um, Mr. LeGarde…” he began.

  “Gus,” I reminded him.

  “Yes. Er, Gus. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning—”

  Marla interrupted with a slight corrective frown at him. “And to thank you, Gus, for saving our son’s life.”

  Winston shook his head as if astounded that he’d forgotten. “Oh, yes. First that. Naturally. You saved his life, Gus.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, once again feeling embarrassed by all the attention.

  “But also,” he continued, “I just stormed out of there and left you standing there with that girl.” He grimaced. “I should have thanked you on the spot. I have no idea what I was thinking. Well, er, I wasn’t thinking. Clearly. But, please, forgive my rude behavior.”

  I sat back in my chair, took a long drink of the lemonade—which was perfectly sweet and tangy—and sighed. “Don’t give it another thought. You were probably in shock, Winston. Nobody can think of everything when they’ve just found their son crashed into the creek.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  I reached for a cookie. They looked like they’d come out of some fancy bakery, covered with frosted designs in pale blue, yellow, and purple. “Real shame about that Corvette, though.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It was my favorite. Babied it since my father gave it to me years ago.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Not sure. We’re waiting to hear from Stewart at the garage. They towed it out of the creek a few hours ago.”

  We spent a few minutes chatting about the house, which had been in Marla’s family for centuries. In the middle of a conversation about how much work they’d done on the inside, a hoarse cry came from above.

  In a blur, Beckett’s body tumbled from an upstairs window, landing near the hydrangea bushes.

  Chapter 8

  Marla screamed. Winston turned gray. And I scrambled to my feet and leapt over the porch railing to check on the boy.

  Overhead, bed sheets tied together to make a long rope now flapped in the breeze. I knelt down beside the crumpled figure. Thankfully, he hadn’t fallen more than ten feet, and he was moaning, which meant he was alive.

  “Beckett?” I turned him gently onto his back.

  “What are you doing here?” He mumbled. “Damn. Almost worked.”

  Marla and Winston appeared seconds later, having taken the stairs instead of jumping over the railing.

  “Oh my God, Beckett,” she cried. “My darling.”

  Winston glanced up at the sheets and heaved a sigh of relief. �
��Thank God. I thought he jumped from the window.”

  The boy groaned, felt the bump on his head, and then scuttled backwards as if just realizing his parents were hovering over him. “I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me. I need to see Jane.” His voice hitched with anxiety, his face twitched, and I sensed tears ready to spill any minute.

  Winston followed closely, speaking sternly. “Son, you know what the doctor said. He wants you to rest after that accident this morning.”

  “I don’t need rest. I need to see Jane.”

  Marla turned to Winston, mouthing the words, who’s Jane?

  I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but I blurted it out. “I think she’s the mother of his baby.”

  Winston gave me a hard look. “What? Who? That girl on the beach?”

  I nodded. “Pretty sure. Baby’s a dead ringer for your son.”

  Beckett stared at me as if he’d kill me on the spot. “Shut up. Just shut up!”

  Marla lost all color and slumped against me. “Oh my God.”

  While Winston wrestled with Beckett to get him back inside, I helped Marla stumble to the house, where we wound through an entry hall and entered a sunroom facing the ocean.

  Winston held onto Beckett, who still struggled. “Stop it. Stop right now. You can’t be out on your own. You know that.”

  I wondered what the whole deal was about. The boy definitely seemed unhinged, but I couldn’t help but think of Jane’s comments about him being held a prisoner, and remembered the shot the paramedics had given him. Was he always drugged? Was he being kept inside for some nefarious reason?

  It made no sense. Why would his own parents do that to him? And why would the local medics go along with it?

  There was always the money aspect, of course. It looked as if the Waterfords had lots of it, and in a small town, deals could be made.

  And what had Cindy at the Town Hall been implying about Beckett’s embarrassing time in high school? What had the boy done? Well, besides getting Jane pregnant, but apparently this was news to his parents.

  I shook the thoughts out of my head while father and son finally made it up the stairs, with Beckett shouting how much he hated his father and mother, how he was going to kill the nosy busybody downstairs, and how he’d escape no matter what locks they put on the doors. The air was full of expletives, now on both sides.