A Star-Spangled Murder Page 16

  “To get back to the woodwork: There weren’t a lot of possible remedies. The entire section could be cut out and replaced with another piece the same size. That’s what I would have done and that’s what my friend wanted to do, but Ted Taylor wanted a mantel carved from a single piece of chestnut, and he wouldn’t accept anything else. We discussed shaving off the entire background design and having the figures stand out in bas-relief, as it were, but then Ted Taylor came up with another idea. He decided that he wanted trees—balsams, to be exact. He thought it would represent the family’s relationship with Maine or something. So my friend carved trees around the family, and that’s it. If that has anything to do with Humphrey being killed, I sure don’t see it.”

  “Are you sure you know the whole story?”

  “The whole thing was enacted in my house and studio—believe me, I know the whole story. I got to hear my friend’s side and then Ted Taylor’s side more times than I care to remember. I didn’t get a lot of my own work done during that time.”

  “Could anything be hidden behind the wood?” Kathleen asked.

  “There could be, but there isn’t. I was there when the mantel was installed, and I can assure you that it was installed right over concrete—solid concrete, just like the stuff that was used to keep the rocks up. And I don’t think any of those rocks are hollow either. Don’t secret hiding places in the chimney strike you as a little too Nancy Drew to be true?”

  “Hmm. The Clue in the Woodwork. I think I read that one when I was a girl,” Janet Shapiro mused, shading her eyes with her hands and looking out to sea. “I’m just kidding,” she added. “I think Nancy Drew had the good sense to stay away from cases as complicated as this one.”

  “Smart lady,” Susan agreed.

  “Let’s go over there and try to discourage those boys from blowing their heads off with bottle rockets and Roman candles. I don’t know what there is about boys and things that explode, but half the male population of the island finds the damn things impossible to resist.”

  Susan and Kathleen hurried after the deputy as she marched over to one side of the yacht club’s parking lot. “We won’t be able to see the finish line as well, but we’ll get a lot more privacy here.”

  “Why do we need privacy?” Kathleen asked, after Janet had confiscated a shoe box brimming with fireworks from six long-haired teens.

  “I thought you might be interested in my reports on the Taylors.”

  “We sure are,” Susan assured her.

  “Well, starting with the dead man then.” She pulled some sheets of computer printer paper from her jacket pocket. “To begin at the beginning. Humphrey was the older son of the Taylor family. Five years older than Ted, in fact. There wasn’t anything odd about his childhood that I could find. Grew up with his family in a suburb in New Jersey and attended the Colorado School of Mines after high school. Four years later he graduated and went off to work in Alaska for one of the big oil companies. First he worked in exploration for a year or two and then he spent three years helping get the pipeline finished. After that he took off for the Mideast—Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Libya. I don’t know much about it, but the list of where Humphrey Taylor had been living for the past twenty years could be described as a list of most of the oil-rich parts of the world. Then a few years ago he retired. Just traveled around for a few years, and then he got tired of being an expatriate or something and he came home. He’s doing some part-time consulting in the Boston area, but he’s not doing it for the money, because he’s not making much.”

  “But he could have made a lot of money working in oil all these years, right?” Susan asked.

  “He probably did. One of the reasons these oil companies can keep people working overseas is because of the big salaries, numerous perks, and tax advantages. Of course, a lot of that has changed in the past ten years or so, but Humphrey has been doing this for a long time. He should be fixed for life.”

  “And his personal life?” Kathleen asked. “Was he married before or anything like that?”

  “There’s no record of it. In fact, there’s not much record of his personal life at all. He was arrested for DWI in Alaska in 1974, but he was young at the time—twenty-four—and it was his first offense of any sort, so he was let off with a warning. And that’s all. At least there’s no record of anything else. The office in Ellsworth is checking with the customs department to see if there was anything significant in his life overseas, but we may not hear about that right away.”

  “But most Arab nations aren’t all that willing to keep around workers who don’t obey their laws, are they?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know. But I was wondering about that,” Janet answered. “I have a friend whose son dropped out of college and got a job of some sort in the United Arab Emirates. However, when he wasn’t working, he was busy with wine, women, and song. The government objected to everything but the songs, and he found himself on a plane home very quickly—and it was only because his uncle is a member of the United States Senate that he didn’t find himself in an Arab prison. Tolerance isn’t a byword in that part of the world.”

  “And that’s all that we know about Humphrey Taylor?” Susan asked.

  “Right now,” Janet Shapiro answered.

  “I know someone who might be able to get us more—if there is anything more. I’ll have to call him, though. Is there a phone in the yacht clubhouse?” Kathleen asked.

  “There isn’t even a clubhouse,” Janet Shapiro answered. “But there’s a shed over near the dock with the gas pumps, and there’s a phone hanging on the wall behind the door. If anyone hassles you, tell them that I asked you to make the call—official business, you know the line.”

  Kathleen nodded and took off.

  “And Tricia and Ted?” Susan asked.

  “Until their divorce, they were the most boring of couples. They’re the same age. He’s the second son of a family with only two children—the parents are dead, by the way; they died in an automobile crash in Colorado about five years ago. He went to Ohio State and met Tricia there. He was always interested in architecture and majored in that. She majored in English lit. They got married less than a month after graduation. Oh, I thought this was interesting. The T. T. initials belong to the girls more than their parents. He’s an Edward and she’s a Patricia.” She looked a little embarrassed. “I know it has nothing to do with this, but I thought it was interesting.… Damn those kids. I hate the Fourth of July. All these damn fireworks. I’d better get over to the water and check this out. No one should be lighting fireworks in the middle of a crowd!”

  But when they arrived at the dock where the loud crack had originated, they discovered that it hadn’t been the explosion of an illegal firecracker. It had been a gunshot.

  TWELVE

  Janet Shapiro was pacing the floor of Susan’s living room. “A sniper. That’s just what we need now. A sniper in the middle of the one weekend of the year when everyone is making loud noises to celebrate. I’m probably going to go mad. Why does this happen when I’m on duty? Whenever Andrew is around, the most excitement we get is an auto accident or a drunk and disorderly. I’ll have a nervous breakdown and that’ll show him!”

  Susan, who had never heard anything but feminist statements from this woman, would have been amused if the situation had been less serious. She wondered what the kayak racers must have thought as they rounded the point before the yacht club and spied people screaming and running from the long floating dock that had served as the finish line for as long as the race had been held. She got up and went to the window, trying to remember everything in order.

  The floating dock was attached to a long, stationary dock, and the first shot had smashed into one of the massive pilings that held the wood in place. The second had hit one of the poles that carried the banner commemorating this year’s event. The third had grazed the mayor’s cheek—right through his jeans. “My newest pair, too—only one hole in the left knee,” he was heard to complain in the fo
od line at the baked-bean supper at the community church. Some of the islanders thought he was using his injury as an excuse to be first in line for May Ables’s raspberry pie. There were a lot of people around who wouldn’t mind getting shot slightly—if it meant a guaranteed piece of that pie.

  Susan tried to focus on less frivolous subjects. The problem with being around Kathleen so much was that it was hard not to keep thinking about food. Most people had fled, and after everyone was sure the shots had ceased, and had returned, it was impossible to get any consensus on where, exactly, they had come from. Finally two of the young men whose firecrackers Janet had confiscated admitted that they had stashed another supply in the crotch of a large apple tree near the drive to the club—and that someone had crushed the box climbing in and out of the branches. Kathleen had agreed with Janet that the top of the tree was the right location, considering the various entry points of the bullets. Shells on the ground were found to match the bullets, and the gun itself was discovered a few feet away. An old thirty-odd-six, it was the weapon of choice for most of the deer hunters on the island. It might take a while to trace down the owner, but it would be done. State investigators would be checking all this out, but Susan was willing to accept the expertise of her two friends.

  Who, she wondered, was the sniper shooting at? There were dozens of people around, but Susan couldn’t help thinking that prominent among the fans cheering on the paddlers were Sally Harter and Judy Briane. Both women had been standing together on the dock right under the pole that had been hit. Sally had been staring out to sea through binoculars and had seen nothing. Judy had been talking with the island’s mayor.

  “There’s no reason to assume that this is related to the murder,” Janet, still pacing, reminded Susan. “No reason at all. It’s just as likely that the shot was fired by an islander in a rage over property taxes or something like that.”

  “Did you ask the mayor if he had any ideas?”

  “He thinks it’s his ex-wife, and he wants me to arrest her immediately. The Taylors aren’t the only couple around with divorce problems.”

  “Do you think … ?”

  “Don’t bank on it. She’s living in Santa Fe. She hated that man when she left him, but she hated living in Maine more. I don’t think she’d set foot in this state for any reason whatever. But I called the police down there to check out her whereabouts. It’s just a formality. I really don’t think she did it.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “Well, I’m hungry, and I always think it’s interesting to get opinions from other people who were at an event like this afternoon’s, so I was wondering about going over to the second seating at the bean supper.…”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” Susan didn’t have to look up to know that Kathleen had once more been enthusiastic about food.

  “The girls …” Susan began.

  “I just spoke with Monsieur Touve on the phone, and he said they were helping him prepare appetizers for his party tonight and he would feed them dinner if we’d pick them up around eight or so. He said that they were happy there and he thought they should stay.”

  “Then let’s get going while there’s still some food left.”

  A lot of churches, granges, and various other clubs in Maine survived on money made at various suppers. Covered-dish suppers, bean suppers, chowder suppers, lobster and clam suppers, were popular. Members made and brought the food. Tickets for one, two, or three seatings were sold, and everyone was happy. Money was made and people got a chance to sample some of the best home cooking in the world. Despite the problems of the past forty-eight hours, Susan discovered that hunger was the prominent thought in her mind. “I’ll drive,” she offered.

  But her phone rang, and Kathleen ran to get it. “I’m expecting this. Why don’t you go with Janet, and I’ll follow in your car?” she called out.

  “Fine.”

  “How is she going to find the church?” Susan asked, following Janet to the police car.

  “She can always follow the scent of beans—or she can ask someone.”

  “You know, I was wondering if you got reports on the Brianes or the Harters,” Susan said.

  “I did. Or, at least, I got the official reports. They’re not very interesting, I’m afraid. Of course, I wasn’t all that interested in them until this afternoon. The men have vanished, by the way. Nothing mysterious. They’re out fishing.”

  “They’re always out fishing,” Susan complained. “Has it occurred to you that fishing alone in the middle of Penobscot Bay is a pretty good excuse to explain why no one can find you?”

  “And that they could be someplace else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like shooting at their wives?”

  “Well, it’s a thought, isn’t it?” Susan asked.

  “I wouldn’t rule it out, but I can’t find much connection between the three families.…”

  “They have a connection with each other, though. Paul Briane and Sally Harter are in love with each other.”

  “Excuse me?” Janet Shapiro put her foot on the brake and pulled over to the side of the road. “So why don’t you just tell me how you know that?”

  Susan explained the conversation she had overheard the night before.

  “Wow. That’s some busy household, isn’t it? I’m beginning to be glad I live on an island,” Janet said.

  “Like the mayor?”

  “Okay. Like the mayor. Maybe life is the same all over. So tell me what you know about the Brianes and the Harters.”

  “The only thing they have in common—except for falling in love with each other—is that they’re both old friends of the Taylors’. They all go back to sometime around college.

  “I know that Sally was Tricia’s roommate in college and that she and Ryan were together at the Taylor wedding, but I don’t know about the Brianes,” Susan said.

  “Well, Paul and Ted grew up together. They were both Boy Scouts. They played on the same soccer team in high school, but they lost touch when they went off to college. They became reacquainted about five or six years ago when the firm Ted worked for was hired to design the sanitarium that Paul was building.…”

  “Then he’s rich?” Susan asked.

  “Not that rich. He got a lot of his doctor friends together, and they all invested in a corporation that he headed. It was a smart move on their part. They got a good, healthy return on their money. It was hard to lose money in the eighties, of course, and the time was right in other ways as well. Paul Briane got in on the beginning of the ‘cure your current addiction/self-help’ boom. It’s sure not like being a struggling artist. He’s been minting money. In fact, he expanded that original clinic into four more all over the country, and he’s opening new ones in San Diego and Boston in the next six months.”

  “Where does he live now?” Susan asked.

  “Just outside of Pittsburgh. Someplace called Bethel Park …”

  “And where do the Harters live?”

  “In Pittsburgh—not surprising if Paul and Sally are involved. But the Harters are in the middle of a move to Massachusetts. Ryan’s business hasn’t been as successful as Paul’s. His small cable company was swallowed up by a media giant last year, and he was out of work. Recently he found a job with one of the biggest cable groups in the Northeast. They needed him immediately. He’s been staying in a hotel in Lowell for the past four months, in fact. And Sally’s been back in Pittsburgh trying to sell the house.”

  “And falling in love with a married man,” Susan added.

  “That, too.”

  “I gather neither couple has any children?”

  “True.”

  “And do the wives work?”

  “Sally does some free-lance editing for a few publishing companies. She has ever since her marriage apparently. And Judy’s a professional fund-raiser. She got her M.B.A. while Paul was in medical school, and she’s had her own business for the past fifteen years—apparently very successful. She works as far awa
y as Cleveland.”

  “Any hints that either marriage is in trouble, other than what I mentioned?”

  “I’ve just got facts, nothing personal as yet.”

  “Is there any sign that either couple had a connection to Humphrey rather than Ted and Tricia?”

  “Unfortunately not. Of course, I tried to check into that. Certainly Sally and Paul would have known him when they were young, but even then, he was Ted’s older brother. And five years older. He would have been away in college by the time Paul and Ted hit high school. And Sally probably met Humphrey at the Taylor wedding, but that’s about it as far as we know. I don’t see any reason that we shouldn’t ask Mr. and Mrs. Taylor about that.”

  “Ask Ted and Tricia?”

  “Damn right. They’ll probably be thrilled to think that we’re considering someone else as a suspect, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then shall we head to the supper? I’m starving.”

  “Good idea,” Susan agreed as Janet started the car.

  The second seating of the supper was well under way when Susan and Janet walked in the door. The church hall was filled and a long line wound its way around the wall as people waited patiently to get to the tables containing food. Beans, baked in a hole dug on the opposite side of the church from the cemetery, were featured, of course. But dozens of casseroles offered a larger choice. Homemade bread, biscuits, and rolls were piled high on plastic trays, and glasses of iced tea and fruit punch were being poured by aproned women into paper cups from frosty metal pitchers. Susan was wondering if there was a chance that someone would see the deputy and offer to let them cut into the line when she heard her name. Kathleen was calling to her from a position near the tables.

  “Come on!” She waved her over. “I saved you a place.”

  “Good girl.” Janet approved. “But I think I see some people who might help us. Save a seat for me at your table, and I’ll join you there.”

  “Everything looks wonderful.” Kathleen was peering ahead at the food when Susan joined her. “I have some interesting information that means probably absolutely nothing.”