A Death on the Island Page 12

  Then there was always the fact that Mrs. Harris was still missing. I knew many of the guests believed she was guilty, purely because of her absence, but I wasn’t so sure. How would frail Mrs. Harris have lifted Holly into the recycling bin? Though Holly was thin, lifting her body four and a half feet off the ground was still an athletic feat, and I could hardly believe Mrs. Harris was up to the task.

  Theories and accusations swirled around in my head as I tried to recall who had an alibi and who did not, though one nagging thought kept throwing me off track. I’d thought Holly was the murderer. I’d been going to confront her, and she was very likely already dead. I had been incredibly off base, so what made me think I could solve this? What made me think I had the tools or the ability to solve a murder investigation of this magnitude? For all I knew, Mrs. Harris was one of the killer’s victims, dead in an upstairs bedroom somewhere, waiting to be discovered.

  I was about to suggest that we should get inside and out of the rain. We needed to call the police again. Even though Shep couldn’t make it to the house because of the storm and the blackout, he still needed to know there was another body. And that brought the thought of what we should do with Holly’s body. Robert was inside—inconvenient, but though he was taking up the main foyer, at least he was out of the rain. Holly, however, was out in the storm. It felt wrong to leave her here all alone, even if she was no longer able to know the difference. I felt weighed down by the thoughts of what needed to be done, and I wished someone else would take the reins. I didn’t want to be the one making decisions. In all honesty, I just wanted to go lie down.

  “Who is there?” Richard yelled into the darkness, startling me out of my thoughts.

  Everyone turned to see where the butler was looking. Down the side of the house, towards the front corner, a stooped figure was moving towards us, struggling to sludge through the thick mud and puddles. I squinted into the darkness, trying to discern some recognizable feature, but the rain made it hard to open my eyes. Suddenly, someone whipped a flashlight towards the person. The light glinted off the rain, breaking the air into a million fractured pieces, but somehow light still managed to reach the shape in the darkness, and I nearly screamed with relief.

  “Mrs. Harris!” I ran towards her as best I could in my now-ruined heels.

  The old woman was soaked through, her dress glued to her body, her gray hair hanging in front of her face, rivulets of water running down the strands and into her mouth. Her lips were moving around words I couldn’t hear.

  “Are you alright?” I asked as I reached her, placing a hand around her thin shoulder.

  Though I was relieved to find her, I caught myself immediately scanning her for signs of blood or scrapes from an altercation. Any sign that she’d been up to something more nefarious than just wandering around in the insane storm. Aside from the rain and the immense amounts of mud covering her legs and arms, she looked unharmed, and I felt relief course through me. It wasn’t a sure sign that she wasn’t guilty, and it wouldn’t be enough to convince the other guests, but it put me at ease.

  I lead her back towards the others, angling her away from the sight of Holly’s body in the recycling bin.

  “What is she doing out here?” Mason asked. I was annoyed by the accusation in his voice.

  “I don’t know, but she is clearly confused and we need to get her back inside before she freezes.”

  The others hesitated, and then nodded in agreement. I directed Mrs. Harris through the back door and into the kitchen, trying to momentarily forget about Holly. One problem at a time.

  The kitchen felt warm, despite the obvious draft coming from the hole in the back wall, and I settled Mrs. Harris into one of the bar stools positioned around the island.

  “Are there any towels or anything?” I asked. “She’s shivering.”

  Richard nodded and jogged down the hall and out of sight, arriving a few minutes later with a few towels and a fluffy cream-colored blanket.

  Mrs. Harris’ lips were a nasty shade of blue-gray, and her fingers felt like ice cubes beneath the layers of drying mud. I clutched her hands in my own, trying to warm her up, though I was nearly as soaked as she was. I threw one of the towels over her shoulders, and I felt a towel land on my own. I turned and saw Mason positioning it on me.

  “You need to take care of yourself, too,” he said.

  All I could think in that moment was how badly I didn’t want Mason to be the murderer. Throughout the night, he had been incredibly kind and warm, two things I never would have suspected from him when we first met. He had been a support system I hadn’t known I needed, and I needed him now more than ever. Though, the thought that he could be the killer—as small as it was in the back of my head—was keeping me from depending on him the way I longed to.

  “Thanks,” I said, adjusting the towel around my neck and turning to focus once again on Mrs. Harris.

  “What were you doing outside?” I asked.

  Her eyes were surprisingly clear, given her half-frozen state, and she looked into mine as if she wanted to send me a secret message.

  “How long were you out there?” I asked, trying to get her to say something. Anything.

  Her lips moved, but no sound came out. I leaned forward to try and hear her.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  She did it again, and this time, the slightest sound escaped.

  Mama. Papa.

  “Your mama and papa?” I asked.

  Her eyebrows shot up as if she were surprised I understood. I suppose Mrs. Harris was well accustomed to people dismissing her as crazy.

  “What about your mama and papa?” I asked.

  Jimmy mumbled something about the question being ridiculous. “Her mama and papa are long dead. Can we focus on the real issue at hand?” he asked.

  Mason shushed him, and again, I was grateful.

  “I was looking for them,” Mrs. Harris said. “I lost them in the storm.”

  “Where did you lose them?” I asked, repeating her phrasing back to her as I didn’t fully understand what she was trying to say.

  “To the other side,” she whispered, leaning in close so that I could smell her breath, thick and mossy.

  “She’s talking about ghosts?” Richard asked, sounding a bit frightened.

  “This is absurd,” Jimmy murmured.

  I tried to ignore them and focus on Mrs. Harris. She continued.

  “Mama fell, and papa’s heart broke.”

  Mama fell, and papa’s heart broke.

  I replayed the sentence over and over in my head until two words crystallized.

  Fell. Heart.

  Robert Baines had fallen down the stairs—with a little help from whomever slit his throat—and Holly Belden had been stabbed in the heart.

  Could this be nothing more than the nonsense ramblings of a delusional woman? Perhaps. But it was also one heck of a coincidence.

  I looked around, but no one else in the room seemed to have gathered the meaning that I had from her words. Good. That made me feel better. It was proof that I was reading too much into it. Proof that I had been looking for a sign that Mrs. Harris was the murderer and my brain had found it, no matter how far of a reach it was.

  “Did they die during a storm?” I asked, trying to make the connection Mrs. Harris had between her parents and this night.

  She nodded. “Preacher buried them under the Oak tree.”

  I remembered the massive Oak tree in the back of our lot. The sprawling limbs provided cool shade that Jasper liked to enjoy on sweltering afternoons. I tried to recall any odd shapes beneath it, unexplained lumps in the ground, or two rocks peeking up from the earth. Nothing came to mind, but it gave credence to what I’d read in Robert Baines’ folder. Mrs. Harris’ parents were buried on the property. That was a fact I planned to leave out of the bed and breakfast’s brochure.

  Richard and Samuel left to gather the rest of the guests and inform them of Holly’s death. When they all arrived in the
kitchen and heard the news, chaos broke out. Daniel clutched onto Julia, who actually seemed relieved at the news—probably glad to know Holly hadn’t been focusing on her as a target. Greg and Tillie Pelkey looked as drunk and unperturbed as ever, both clutching onto their vice of choice. Greg, his bourbon, and Tillie, her cigarette. Shanda and Ward rushed out the back door towards the recycling bin to see if there was anything they could do, though it would be very apparent upon looking at Holly’s corpse that there wasn’t. Still, it would have felt wrong had the two doctors not at least examined the body. Ethel held back tears, a tissue clutched in her fist and held to her mouth like a southern woman in a civil war-era movie.

  When Shanda and Ward returned, soaking wet and emotionally downtrodden, Mason addressed the group.

  “Unless there is a killer secretly hiding on the property and stalking us, it’s safe to assume one of us is the killer,” he said.

  Everyone nodded in agreement, casting wary glances to one another, though a substantial number of looks landed on Mrs. Harris. I pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders, trying to protect her from their accusatory eyes.

  Mason continued, “We split up into groups to try and relieve the tension, but another person ended up dead. Clearly, it was a bad plan.”

  “The reporter brought it on herself,” Greg said, his words almost indecipherable due to his level of inebriation. “She’s the one who suggested we split up.”

  “Is that really appropriate?” Ethel asked, her voice choked up. “The poor woman is dead. She didn’t ask for a knife in the heart.”

  Greg went to respond, but Mason cut him off.

  “No one is to blame except the murderer. And since we don’t know who that is, we all need to stay together. Keep an eye on each other.” He made a pointed look at Greg and, when Greg failed to notice, at his wife, Tillie. “Can we all handle that?”

  Tillie nodded and grabbed her husband’s arm, corralling him close to her, her silent promise that she’d do her best to keep him in line.

  “Are we going to address the elephant in the room?” Daniel asked.

  When no one seemed to understand what he was saying, he pointed directly at Mrs. Harris, forgetting all rules of a civilized society.

  “There’s no need to point,” I said.

  “Obviously there is,” Daniel said, his voice growing loud. “She disappears just before the first body is found and then reappears after the second is discovered? That seems a bit suspicious to me. And why is she soaking wet? Weird night to take a stroll, isn’t it?”

  Daniel disentangled himself from Julia and moved towards Mrs. Harris, leaning forward to get on her level. “What were you doing out there, huh? Murdered any people lately?”

  “Enough,” I said. “She’s confused and cold. Leave her alone.”

  Usually quiet, Ward spoke up. “Piper is right. We should just wait for the police to investigate before we start accusing people. We should stick together and wait for help to arrive.”

  “Or wait until we’re all killed off one by one,” Greg mumbled.

  “Perhaps it would be easier to avoid being murdered if you were sober,” Ethel said without looking at Greg.

  “That didn’t help Mr. Baines or Holly,” Greg retorted.

  As much as I hated to admit it, he had a good point. We had no real understanding of why anyone was being targeted.

  Mason quieted everyone and regained control. Letting him take charge felt nice. It was someone else’s turn to try and protect the party guests. I’d had my turn, and things hadn’t gone over well.

  “We’re going to move back to the sitting room, and we’re going to wait for Shep to arrive. That’s it,” Mason said, sounding like a parent scolding naughty children. “We aren’t going to accuse other guests, we aren’t going to belittle one another, and we aren’t going to wander off alone.”

  * * *

  The sitting room looked much like it had when I’d first arrived, except candles had replaced the few table lamps that had been lit, and the guests, rather than being gathered around Robert Baines, were huddled around the gas fireplace, silently killing time.

  Julia and Daniel were huddled together on a chair in the corner, her sitting on his lap, and I wondered whether their relationship would last beyond the night. Was this a case of creature comfort? Two people in an insane situation drawn together out of a need for comfort, or was this Daniel’s attempt to try and capitalize on Julia’s newfound fortune, as her father had no doubt left her a substantial sum of money? Or was Daniel actually smitten with Julia? It seemed unlikely considering many people familiar with Daniel had commented how far I was outside of his usual choice of women, being well under 5’10” and never having modelled underwear. However, Julia was even further outside his usual choice. She wasn’t unattractive, but rather than being svelte, Julia would be more properly described as hearty. She looked sturdy, with broad shoulders and a wide chin. I couldn’t picture them as a couple, even after seeing them curled up together all night.

  Shanda and Ward sat on the sofa, a few feet apart, each of them looking dazed. I felt bad for them. As the only doctors at the party, or on the island, for that matter, they had taken the brunt of responsibility for the bodies. Unlike most of the party guests who could see a dead body and retreat, Shanda and Ward had been forced to dive into the madness and try to make sense of it. Clearly, the night had been exhausting for everyone, but for those two in particular.

  Unsurprisingly, Greg and Tillie were posted up next to the drink cart. Greg’s glass was never more than half empty, and Tillie had kept up a steady rotation of cigarettes. It was a wonder she was still alive, honestly. I imagined her lungs clogged with thick black grime. Had the killer’s knife plunged into her chest, I had a feeling it would have come out covered in tar.

  Jimmy sat by himself in a chair near the window, his pale face reflected back in the dark glass. He had been stressed since the beginning of the evening, which I knew for a fact because Mason and I had overheard him complaining about Robert Baines blackmailing him. However, after finding Holly, he’d been withdrawn and somber. No one expected him to be in a party mood, but for having never met Holly before tonight, he seemed to be taking it rather hard.

  Ethel, further classifying herself as a stereotypical grandma, had pulled yarn and crocheting needles out of her purse and seemed to be making a beige scarf by candlelight. Had two people not been murdered within the last several hours, I would have laughed at the sight.

  Samuel and Richard came in with more supplies to keep everyone comfortable. Richard was carrying blankets and water bottles. Samuel, still mindful of his catering duties, was carrying another silver tray of appetizers, all of which were seafood based. It had been several hours since Samuel had first walked around with the appetizers, so I had to wonder how fresh they still were. Though, as the tray passed by me, I couldn’t deny how hungry I was, and I grabbed one. As I did, I remembered Holly earlier in the evening grabbing for two lobster puffs when everyone else had taken one. Then, she’d taken the opportunity to rave about the lobster puffs every time the topic came up. I called to Samuel and he came back with the tray. I took a second one in honor of Holly, no longer concerned with whether I looked like a pig or not.

  Everyone grabbed some food and water except for Jimmy. When Samuel made it to his corner of the room, Jimmy dismissed him with a wave and returned his gaze to the window. Samuel, however, pressed him.

  “You ought to eat something,” he said.

  “No, thank you,” Jimmy said, each word laced with a venom I didn’t understand.

  “Are you sure?” Samuel asked.

  Jimmy fixed him with a nasty glare and Samuel finally took the hint and moved on, pressing three crackers smothered with some sort of tuna into Greg’s hand, no doubt trying to soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach. When Samuel reached Ethel, she asked about the silverware, wondering where he’d bought it.

  “I’m not sure,” Samuel said. “This was Mr. Baine
s’. I don’t have anything near this fancy at home.”

  “Oh, it’s a shame I can’t ask him,” Ethel said, looking disappointed. She hesitated and then shook her head. “Though, of course, that is the least of my concerns, obviously. His death was horrible. As was Ms. Belden’s.”

  Ethel was rambling, but I barely heard it. Her conversation had made me remember something important. Holly had loved the lobster puffs, and they were the whole reason she’d seen Richard and Mr. Baines talking at the top of the stairs in the first place. She’d snuck into the kitchen while it was empty to grab a few more lobster puffs before dinner started. But Ethel’s question about the silver serving platter had made me remember what Holly had said. She’d said that she’d gone into the kitchen and grabbed another lobster puff from the box.

  The box.

  I hadn’t noticed any boxes in the kitchen while I was in there. In fact, I hadn’t noticed any cooking equipment, either. For a party as large as ours, there should have been a mess of pans and trays. The kitchen should have been hot with the heat from the ovens and the stove top. The trashcan should have been overflowing with discarded food scraps. Samuel had mentioned that the reason he’d been out of the kitchen when Holly snuck in to get the lobster puffs was because he was taking the trash out. However, I’d been outside. I’d seen the trashcans. They’d been empty. The only bin out there that was full had been the recycling bin. Full with Holly Belden and the boxes she was lying on top of.

  I searched my memory for the image of those boxes. Tried desperately to recall what they’d looked like. Had anything been written on them? Something that could point me towards the killer? I tried to recall even the slightest detail, but admittedly I’d been rather distracted by Holly’s dead body and the knife in her heart.