MURDER IN MARIS COVE
by
Joseph E. Wright
Copyright 2009 by Joseph E. Wright
All rights reserved
Cover Design by Joseph E. Wright
Smashwords Edition February 2009
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences
are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not the goal of the author.
CHAPTER I
“You don’t commit murder just to keep someone from buying a house,” Phillis protested. “At that rate, there would soon be more houses on the market than people to buy them. Was the caller really serious?”
“I think he was.” Pat Montgomary pushed aside his plate and looked across the breakfast table at her. “Franklin told me the person who called him said there would be an accident, that one of the buyers would never live to enjoy that house. Sounds like a threat of murder to me.”
“What should we do about it?” She studied his face, the deep tan, the crows feet, the very first hint of gray at the temples in his otherwise jet black hair, his deep brown, almost black, eyes.
“Who said anything about us? Franklin called me this morning and asked for my help.” He couldn’t resist the temptation to tease. So early in the day her smile lit up the dining room in his house in Philadelphia’s Society Hill. Her light brown, almost auburn, hair reflected the morning sunlight. Her eyes, which he swore were plum color, stared back at him.
“If you think you’re going to keep me out of it, boy are you wrong.” In little more than a whisper, as she sipped her coffee, her elbows resting on the table, she added, “Just try leaving me home.”
“I know. Only it might not be a picnic. Franklin sounded both serious and a little bit frightened, and believe me, Franklin doesn’t frighten easily.”
“Go over once more what the caller said.”
“Franklin told me he was awakened very early this morning by a telephone call. As I told you, someone--husband and wife, I gather--want to buy one of the houses in Maris Cove. Well, the caller told Franklin that if they did, they’d never get to enjoy that house, that one of them would meet with an accident. Evidently, it was that simple and that brief.”
“And you told Franklin we’d help?”
He nodded. “Thought you’d approve. After the way you solved that last bit of... er… mischief?... this ought to be right up your alley, provided….”
“Provided?”
“Provided, Phil, you promise me you’ll be careful. Murder is not a game and people who make threats of murder sometimes carry them out.”
She put her napkin to one side. “From everything you’ve told me, Franklin is possibly the closest, dearest friend you have, right?”
Pat nodded.
“And he’s frightened, right?”
Again he nodded.
“He could use our help, right?”
“Yes, but--”
“There’s no but.” She got up from the table and called to him over her shoulder as she left the room, “Let’s go, brother dearest. This time we have a murder to prevent, instead of solve.”
CHAPTER II
Within the hour, Pat Montgomary and Phillis Toner, his half sister, were on the Ben Franklin Bridge over the Delaware River, then skirted past the city of Camden on the New Jersey side. Pat picked up Route 70 and they headed east.
“You promised to tell me what was so unusual about this place we’re going to,” Phillis said.
“Maris Cove? Apart from being very beautiful, right on the Jersey Coast, it also enjoys the most privacy of any place I know. It was once the estate of Thurston Cairens, who made his fortune in--are you ready for this?--asparagus. Owned thousands of acres of the stuff in South Jersey. The family since branched out into frozen foods. Maris Cove is a couple hundred acres, entirely walled in, with access through the main gate off a side road. The only other way in or out is from the ocean side.”
“Something of a private town?”
“About the nearest thing to it. Sometime in the late eighteen hundreds, Thurston Cairens built a house on the highest point with a magnificent uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean in three directions. Don’t know how many rooms that house has, but in the past dignitaries often stayed there. President Wilson spent more than one weekend there when he was governor of New Jersey and later when he was in the White House. Politicians, celebrities, and European royalty have been frequent visitors. Anyone who needs privacy would love the place. It has its own beach.
“Anyway, there’s something else that’s different about the place. Thurston Cairens built six other houses on the property, all of them facing the ocean, but none of them on quite the grand scale of his own. He built them for his relatives, for a business partner and, as rumor has it, even for one of his mistresses. When he died, he left a will which stated that the owners of all seven houses would each own the whole estate in its entirety, with Cairens descendants always having use of his house, the largest one. The will stipulated that as owners died or wished to sell their shares, it would be necessary for all the others to approve the new owners.”
“Sort of a condominium arrangement,” Phillis said.
“More like a co-op. You see, no one legally owns his or her own house there. They own a share of the estate, with the use of a particular property and complete use of the rest of the place.”
“And someone wants to buy in, live in Maris Cove, according to Franklin.” Phillis spoke as she stared out the window at the Jersey scrub pines flashing by.
“That’s more or less it,” Pat told her. “Franklin told me a few weeks ago that one of the houses was vacant. He wanted me to buy it. I’m fond of Franklin, but not so sure I’d get along with the others there.”
“Too cliquish?”
“I suspect so. And busybodies, too, if you ask me. I like my freedom to come and go without living on a slide under someone’s microscope.”
“Franklin takes this threat seriously?”
“Very. His voice was shaking on the phone.”
They left Route 70 and took a back road which connected with Route 9 and headed south. Five minutes later, he turned left onto a road with no name. Three quarters of a mile along this road, he veered off onto a dirt shoulder and stopped. He got out and walked over to one of the stone pillars supporting the massive double gate, and picked up a telephone set in the wall. He identified himself, and got back into the car as the two gates swung open.
“I’m impressed already,” Phillis said.
“This is the poor part of town. Wait till you see what’s ahead.”
They drove through a tunnel of oak trees. The air was cool, no sunlight let in through the leaves overhead. The road was barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass. They rode by a caretaker’s cottage and were stared at by a man who was leaning against the doorway of the stone house. He was tall, wearing only jeans, his bronzed torso gleaming in the sun. He tipped a weatherbeaten felt hat to Phillis, revealing a shock of blonde hair, and smiled. He stared at them as they drove out of sight.
“Doesn’t exactly look like a painting of the faithful old family retainer,” she said.
“Name’s Quarrels. And well-named. Sort of a miserable lot, but for some reason he’s been all right with me. Don’t know why. No one else seems to get along with him.”
Phillis’ eyes widened as she saw the gleaming white house with its yellow awnings spread out in front of her.
“That’s the back of the Cairens’ house,” Pat told her. “Wait till you see the front. We’ll take a walk later so you can get a better look at it.” He turned right along the now paved road and drove up a slight incline. “This is Franklin’s backyard,” he explained as he parked his car in the shade of a tree.
The back of the house was plain, white stucco with stained boards dividing the first and second stories, and trimming the windows. There was a small back porch with three steps leading down to the yard. The screen door opened and banged shut. Franklin came down the steps to greet them.
“My dear boy, how absolutely delightful to see you,” he exclaimed as he threw his arms around Pat. “And this, I presume, is the long-lost and dearly-to-be-cherished sister, if I mistake not.” He now did to Phillis what he had done to Pat.
“You’re far prettier, my dear, than this scoundrel of a brother led me to believe.” Franklin stepped back, holding her hands, and gazed at her. He was slightly taller than Pat’s six feet, a crop of white hair tousled atop his head. His face had taken on the softness of age with many wrinkles. His hands, bony and slightly twisted with arthritis, held Phillis’ with a surprisingly strong grip.
“All I said was that she wasn’t much to look at,” Pat said.
“And for that, Master Montgomary, you should be horsewhipped. Come, my dear.” Franklin tugged at one of her hands. “You and I shall leave this worthless brother of yours to fend for himself while you and I get acquainted over a pitcher of vodka gimlets.”
“But, how did you--” She stopped in her tracks, then realized what had happened. “He told you, I see.”
“Yes, he told me. Even that brother of yours must have at least one redeeming quality, right?”
“At least one,” she agreed as they walked around the side of the house and up onto the front porch. Franklin held the front door open for her.
Inside, the house was dark and cool. The living room was two stories high with a cathedral ceiling. The furniture was heavy and masculine. A long library table was against the far right wall. Two small sofas with houndstooth upholstery faced one another and at right angles to the fireplace. A rug of indeterminate Oriental vintage, now mostly worn through to the backing, covered the center of the room. A Morris chair filled one corner with a stack of magazines in the crib attached to its side. The opposite corner held a desk with a brass student’s lamp atop.
“O.K., old boy, what’s all this about some trouble about to happen?” Pat asked after they were seated.
Franklin looked serious. “I do not wish to alarm.” He looked first at Pat, then Phillis. “It’s a feeling I have in these antiquated bones of mine.”
“Why not start at the beginning,” Pat suggested. “We know it has to do with one of the houses changing hands”
“Ah, yes, dear boy.” He sighed, then turned to address Phillis. “In case your bother hasn’t explained, do let me. There are a total of seven houses here, with the main house built in the nineteenth century by Thurston Cairens. The one for sale is immediately on the other side of the Cairens’ place, on the north side of the cove, and somewhat resembles this house, with only a few minor differences. That one, like mine, is sort of a bastardized English, what I prefer to call American Tudor. Americans think that if you build low to the ground and have a few cross beams protruding from the outside plaster, you can call it Tudor. Be that as it may, both houses are quite comfortable.”
“Who’s trying to buy it?” Pat asked.
“A very yuppie couple from your blessed city of Philadelphia. Name of Reitman. They are paper dolls. And they’ve missed nothing on their way up the yuppie ladder, right down to the way they dress. I could not help myself, I broke out laughing the day I met them. He was wearing chino trousers, oxford button down shirt, loafers, and sweater with its arms tied around his neck. Right off the cover of a men’s magazine quite a few years back. She was wearing sensible shoes, cotton frock, hair cut short. Both had glasses. I was not at all surprised to see them drive up in their BMW. By the by, are they calling them yuppies this year? I can’t keep up with the latest in-word: yuppies, dinks, or hics.”
“Dinks, I know. Double Income; No Kids. But hics?” Pat asked.“Yes, dear boy, Homes In the City and Seashore.”
“Let me guess,” Phillis spoke up. “He’s a doctor; she’s a lawyer.”
“You almost hit it perfectly,” Franklin chuckled. “In fact, it’s the other way around.”
“That can’t be the reason you think there’ll be trouble?” Pat asked. “Yuppies aren’t outlawed--yet.”
“No, dear boy, not even here at Maris Cove. In fact, we pride ourselves on our liberal way of thinking.” To Phillis he said, “You’ll meet all the natives and you’ll see what I mean. No, it has nothing to do with the lifestyles of our prospective neighbors. If they want to squeeze themselves into some kind of outdated mold, that’s their business. Trouble is, one of our lot doesn’t feel that way, judging from that phone call I received this morning. That’s why I contacted you, Patrick, my boy.”
“From?”
“I wish I knew. It came about six-fifteen this morning. I was awakened from a sound sleep and a rather pleasant dream. The voice on the other end was difficult to make out. Not sure whether male or female. Hoarse. Raspy. Unnaturally deep, as though whoever it was didn’t want me to recognize the voice, which, of course, is perfectly understandable, given the content of the message.”
“Recall the exact conversation?” Pat asked.
“I attempted to teach you Latin, remember?”
“Please, don’t remind me.”
“You’ll at least remember what I vainly attempted to drill into you young scamps. It was more than just Latin. Memorization. And my own memory is every bit as good as it was back then. I can give you the conversation better than if I had recorded it. Not at all difficult, considering the conversation was over almost before it began. For the sake of simplicity, I shall refer to my caller as He:
“He: ‘Mr. York?’
“I: ‘Speaking.’
“He: ‘Make sure the Reitmans don’t buy that house.’
“I: ‘Who is this?’
“He: ‘Never mind. Make sure they don’t buy that house or there could be trouble. Serious trouble. Someone might get hurt.’
“I tried once more to ascertain the identity of my caller, but whoever it was ignored me and went on to say one last thing: ‘If the Reitmans are voted in, one of them won’t live long enough to enjoy the house. One of them will be dead within hours.’ That’s when my caller hung up on me. There was something strange about that voice.”
“Think you recognized it?” Pat asked.
“Not so much recognized. No, that would be the wrong word to use. After teaching for so many years, after having had hundreds--in fact, a few thousand--young men who thought they could outwit me, playing all kinds of scams, you get to sense when the voice isn’t true.”
“Like when someone is lying?” Phillis suggested.
“Yes, and when they are trying to change their voices,” Franklin told her.
“Changing the sex of the person speaking?”
“Dear me, it could have been all of the above. But there was something more, over and above trying to disguise sex, age, accent. It was something more intangible, something of a strain. Yes, that was it, there was a strain, a definite strain, in the voice. I daresay I can not be more helpful than that.”
“You’re convinced it was someone who lives here in Maris Cove?” Pat asked.
“That, or someone who knows all about the Reitmans trying to buy the cottage.”
“Reitman,” Phillis said. “Jewish?”
“Possibly,” Franklin answered. “In fact, most likely. But I’m sure it’s not a case of anti-Semitism. The Naimans--Rudolph and Estelle--live here. Have lived here for a number of years. You can’t accuse us of being prejudiced. The last to be voted into Maris Cove are Curtis and Willis, a gay couple. As I said, we really do have no hang-ups here.”
“And not a question of color,” Pat sort of mumbled to himself.
“Even color wouldn’t be a problem. You forget, dear boy, that Curtis is African-American. And those two were voted in by all the present residents.”
“When do you vote?” Pat asked.
“This evening.” Franklin’s face was grave. “And that, dear boy, is why I urged you to come today. I don’t mind telling you I am worried, sorely worried. Whoever it was who was on the telephone this morning sounded serious, sounded as though he--or she--meant what he--or she--said, meant to carry out the threat against the Reitmans.”
“Have you told anyone else about that phone call? Especially the Reitmans?” Phillis asked.
“Dear me, no. I wouldn’t dream of telling the Reitmans for fear they might think it was I who was threatening them, and he being a lawyer I might find myself in legal trouble. And I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone else until I first spoke to you two.”
Pat leaned forward in his seat. “Franklin, as I reminded you on the telephone this morning, we are not detectives. We accidentally got ourselves mixed up in a couple of murders in the past, but that’s about as close as we come to being sleuths.”
“I understand, my dear boy, but still I... well, I do have some degree of confidence in your judgment, and since your sister here has some of the Montgomary genes in her, she too must be in possession of uncommon common sense like your Aunt Molly. By the by, how is your dear aunt?”
“Aunty’s doing fine,” Pat answered. “She sends her love. But to get back to.... What do you intend doing?”
“I intend asking you what I should do, that’s what I intend. I want you to tell me what to do.”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do. Not now or ever. I will suggest, however, that you tell everyone else involved that someone has made a threat against the Reitmans. I think the other residents ought to know about it. And with someone making a death threat, it’s time you brought in the police.”
“I do suppose you are right.”
“Just how do you vote?” Phillis asked. “I mean, does everyone have a vote?”
“Each property has one vote.”
“Do you require unanimous approval?”
“Yes, everyone must approve the sale of the property, otherwise it can’t go through.”
“That doesn’t make much sense then, does it?” she turned and asked her brother.
“No sense at all,” Pat agreed as he looked across at her.
“I don’t understand,” Franklin said.
Pat gestured for Phillis to explain.
“Don’t you see, Franklin, if your caller was one of the other residents, all he or she would have to do would be to vote against the Reitmans and that would put an end to it all. There would be no need to make threats.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Franklin said. “Dear me, yes, I see I haven’t been very clear at all, have I? You see, each property has one and only one vote. In the case where there are two owners of the same property, as with Rudolph and Estelle Naiman, for example, there is still only one vote. If they can’t agree, then they are disqualified and lose their vote. My caller could have been someone whose partner wants to vote in favor of the Reitmans, and the caller doesn’t want the other to know he or she is opposed. Since that phone call, I’ve been unable to think of anything else, mulling all this over and over in my mind, as you probably can tell. My caller could also, for all we know, have been someone calling on behalf of someone else here.”
“How many of the houses are owned by more than one person?” Pat asked.
“Well, there are the Naimans, of course. And Willis Umstead and Curtis Love, our gay couple. And the Cairens: Max Cairens, grandson of the original Thurston Cairens; Max’s wife, Lorraine; and Hildegaarde, Max’s ninety-year-old mother, who doesn’t actually have a vote, but does have strong opinions about everything under the sun. She could have taken a dislike to the Reitmans for some reason or other and couldn’t get Max to agree to blackball them.”
“And single owners?” Phillis asked.
“There’s Gwynne Valentine, Jessie Fennshaw, and, naturally, myself. Three multiple owners and three single owners. Never thought of it like that before.”
“So, it sounds probable that our caller--or at least the one responsible for the call being made--if he is from Maris Cove, is half of a pair and doesn’t want his other half to know he objects to the Reitmans coming here,” Pat said to Phillis. He looked at his watch. “Almost noontime. We have, what, six? seven hours? before the fateful voting begins. Doesn’t leave us much time. Let’s start talking to everyone.”
“Patrick, my boy, if you will show Phillis to her room, the one on the right and you take the one across from it, I shall begin calling the other residents and see if we can get together.”
Patrick led the way up the bare wooden staircase to the balcony which overlooked the living room. A hall ran at a right angle to the balcony, bisecting the rear of the house. Off this hall were several doors. Pat opened one on their right and motioned for Phillis to enter. “Your room, with a view of the Cairens’ place,” he pointed out to her as he walked over to the window and looked out. He put her bag on the bed. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
He opened the door directly across the hall and went into a room which had a spool bed against the wall on his right. On the opposite wall was a bird’s-eye maple dresser. A stuffed chair stood at an angle next to the window, a floor lamp next to it for reading. A man’s room, surely, he thought to himself. Not surprising, since Franklin had never married. One of those rare men who are genuinely confirmed bachelors without being either gay or misogynistic. Patrick corrected himself. Franklin had married. He had been married for more than half a century to his profession: teaching.
Pat stood at the window of his room and for a few moments the years flew away like clouds blown by the wind. He was standing in another small room which had two cots and two desks in it. He was twelve years old and it was his first day at Darmshire School, and he was terrified. All around him were boys. Everywhere he looked he saw only members of his own sex, some of them younger than he, most older, and a few, scattered here and there, were adult. He already missed his Aunt Molly, the only mother he had ever known, and since his father’s death the year before, she had become his whole family. There was a knock at his door and it opened. As he turned away from the window, he saw the tallest man he thought he had ever seen in his life.
“Master Montgomary.” The voice seemed to bellow. “I am Mr. York. I shall be teaching you Latin this year. Or at least I shall try. Here, sit down.”
Patrick sat down on the edge of the bed, his toes barely touching the floor. He was still short for his age; it would be another three years before, as his Aunt Molly would say, he sprouted up like the mimosa seedling she planted in her back yard. He wished so very desperately that he could stop shaking. He hadn’t seen any of the other boys shaking. They all seemed so sure of themselves.
“This is your first time away from home, isn’t it?” Mr. York asked him.
Patrick looked up at this man with the large features, the gray just beginning to show at the temples, the blue eyes softened long before age would make them paler. There was something about him that made Patrick stop shaking and he felt his confidence return. He spoke up. “Does it show, sir?” he asked.
“It always shows the first time,” Mr. York said. “Don’t worry, by this time tomorrow you’ll feel you’ve spent your whole life here at Darmshire. Just remember, if there are any problems, you can always come tell me about them.” With that, Patrick’s Latin teacher got up and left.
“I’ll always be grateful to Franklin for that,” Patrick said aloud as he came back to the present and turned away from the window.
Ten minutes later, he went downstairs to Franklin’s living room. Phillis was already there.
“I’ve called the other residents,” Franklin announced. “Lorraine Cairens will be here soon. Her husband, Max, is working. Jessie Fennshaw, Rudolph and Estelle Naimans, and Gwynne Valentine will also be here. Those two dear boys, Curtis and Willis, don’t answer their phone. Could have sworn they were both home.”
As Franklin finished speaking, they could hear the sound of voices outside, coming up the path to his front porch.
CHAPTER III
Lorraine Cairens was the first to come through the front door, which Franklin held open for her. She was a petite woman in her late forties. Her hair was light enough to be called beige; her eyes a blue without intensity; her face round, without makeup today, and no one feature of which caught the observer’s eye until, that is, she smiled. She had the smile of one who knows what you are thinking and promises not to tell anyone. It was a mischievous smile, one which said, “You and I will share our little secret.”
Franklin made the introductions.
“What in heaven’s name is so urgent?” Lorraine asked.
“Something very important, my dear. But wait until the others get here.”
Estelle Naiman came into the room. She gave “full-figured woman” a whole new meaning. She was a dozen years younger than her husband and almost that many inches taller than he. She was in her early fifties and still dyed her hair jet black, making her facial features seem sharp. Rudy walked the prescribed three feet behind his queen, eyes lowered respectfully. Estelle sat on the sofa and the cushions sagged beneath her weight. Rudy carefully sat on the edge of his cushion next to her.
“It better be important, Franky,” she said. “You know we take our naps this time of day.”
Franklin assured her it was indeed important, as he turned to greet Jasmine Fennshaw. Everyone called her Jessie. She had much in common with Franklin. She was almost as tall as he, close to his age, and like Franklin, she had devoted her life to teaching, but unlike him it was hardly a labor of love. Now that she was retired, she made no bones about the fact that she had hated every day of teaching. “I gave my life to those little bastards,” she was often heard to say. “Now I intend to enjoy myself.” She would sometimes confide that enjoying herself meant finding a man.
“If Franklin says it’s important, chances are it might be just that,” she said to the room in general. “Of course, on the other hand, it might be--”
“Enough of the sarcasm, Jessie dear,” Franklin said. “Everyone here? Oh, no, Gwynne’s not here.”
The words were scarcely out of Franklin’s mouth when the front door flew open without the warning of a knock, and banged against the wall. The woman who came in was in her early thirties. She was dark, almost gypsy in her coloring, with a fire in her eyes that seemed at first blush to be threatening. One could imagine her with a rose between her teeth doing a fairly good Carmen. Gwynne Valentine had made something of a reputation for herself, as well as a good living, illustrating children’s books with pictures which, Franklin had once told Pat, contained “cute bunnies, precious children, and adorable little fawns, romping in antiseptic forests. She also has,” Franklin added, “the vocabulary of a longshoreman.”
“What’s up, York?” she asked without looking directly at her host. “Or should I rephrase that question? It’s so unlike you to get anything up, right, old boy?”
Franklin ignored her. “I couldn’t get a response out of Curtis or Willis,” he told the room, “although their cars are there. They could be--”
“We can all guess what they could be doing,” Gwynne said with a knowing wink to the room in general.
“So, get on with it, Franky,” Estelle urged.
Franklin related to them, verbatim, the telephone call he had received concerning the election of the Reitmans into Maris Cove. When he finished there were a few seconds of silence, then Estelle spoke up.
“No one--absolutely no one--is going to tell me who we can or can not accept here.” She spoke in a voice that left no doubt as to her determination.
“I think we all agree, my dear,” Lorraine Cairens said to her. “However, it is a serious matter and if there is someone determined to kill, if need be, to prevent it, I for one think we should at least inform the Reitmans about this telephone call, don’t you all agree?” She searched the room for agreement. Rudolph and Estelle nodded. Gwynne shrugged her shoulders. Jessie took a deep breath and threw out her chest, which did nothing to increase her bustline, and said, “I’m with Estelle. Screw the bugger, whoever he is.”
“Or she is,” Franklin corrected her. Had he suddenly proposed an act of violence or suggested they should all remove their clothes, he couldn’t have received a more stunned reaction. Rudolph ventured to speak, but because he was out of practice, shut his mouth and looked down at the floor. Jessie snorted her contempt at Franklin’s saying that one of her gender could have made the telephone call. Lorraine muttered a demure, “But surely…?”
“You’re talking out of your asshole, York!” Gwynne said and got up and walked over to the liquor cart where she proceeded to prepare herself a drink.
“I’m sorry to offend you, ladies,” he said. “I realize that with the exception of Rudolph, you are all females and it does seem as though I’m casting slurs on your gender. Shame Curtis and Willis aren’t here, then we’d have--”
“Rudy would still be the only man here,” Gwynne said as she sat down next to him and winked.
Rudolph visibly blushed under his deep tan. His gray moustache twitched as he chuckled and his potbelly quivered.
“Just the same,” Franklin went on, “the voice on the telephone could easily have been either a man’s or a woman’s. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that--”
“Where do your two friends here come into all this?” Gwynne interrupted him and swept her glass in an arc to include Pat and Phillis.
“Mr. Montgomary... Pat....” Franklin fumbled, “is a former student of mine and has had some considerable success in police matters along with his sister, Miss Toner... Phillis. They were instrumental in solving a couple of rather baffling murder cases in Philadelphia not too long ago, and I did rather think they could be of some help to us. Totally discreet, you understand.”
“What do you think of this threatening telephone call?” Lorraine asked both Pat and Phillis.
Pat spoke up. “We’ve already suggested that Franklin tell all of you about it, and that the police should be notified. It goes without saying that you owe it to the Reitmans to tell them, don’t you agree, Phil?”
“Especially about notifying the police,” Phillis answered. “As for the Reitmans, if I were one of them, I’d suspect it was an attempt to dissuade me from trying to buy the property without actually coming out and voting against me. After all, you can’t take any legal action and cry discrimination if the blame is put on some invisible, mysterious maker of anonymous phone calls. I’d think you were trying to cop out and so I’d call your bluff and insist you go ahead with the election as planned.”
“Max should be told,” Lorraine said softly. “We vote this evening just before dinner. I’m in favor of telling the Reitmans, but I don’t think we should bring the police in.”
“Hear! Hear!” Jessie voiced her agreement.
“No police,” Estelle added.
“And you, Rudy, what do you think?” Gwynne asked. She saluted him with her glass.
“Me? Er... ” He looked sideways at his wife. “I agree with my wife.” He went back to his current pastime: staring at the floor.
“The consensus seems to be that we tell the Reitmans, but not bring the police into this matter,” Franklin said. “Since I’m the one who received the telephone call, I shall attempt to find Curtis and Willis this afternoon and tell them about it. Will you call Max, Lorraine? Good. Who should tell the Reitmans?”
“I think Max should,” Lorraine said. “I feel positive he’ll agree they should be notified and that he should be the one to do it.”
“Well, then.” Franklin looked about. No one had anything more to say and they began standing up.
“Pat, Phillis, I do hope you will join us for dinner this evening,” Lorraine Cairens said as she walked over to them. “I don’t know if Franklin has told you, but this voting ceremony is a rather formal affair. Traditionally, we meet at my husband’s house and afterwards we have dinner. Can we expect you about seven-thirty or so?”
Pat and Phillis told her they would be delighted.
When everyone had left, Franklin sighed and looked at his two guests. “No one thinks we should call the police.”
“That’s your decision,” Pat told him. “I still think you’re all wrong. I just hope your caller doesn’t carry out his threat, and you have to call them in later.”
“I think Curtis and Willis might be on the beach. Care to go with me to see?” Franklin walked towards the front door.
Phillis jumped to her feet. “I’d love to. I brought my bathing suit along. Wait for me?”
“We’ll wait,” Franklin told her. He watched her go up the stairs and into her bedroom, then addressed Pat. “More beautiful than you told me. Is she happy?”
“Like a school kid. She still doesn’t really believe all that’s happened to her. It’s fun watching her. I feel very lucky to have found her. Actually, Aunt Molly found her. She could have turned out to be quite different, not as pleasant. I enjoy having her in my house.”
A few minutes later, Franklin, Phillis, and Pat went out the front door and took the path which led past Gwynne Valentine’s house, a 1920’s Art Deco summer cottage of one floor with pitched roof allowing for an attic. The sides of the house were white clapboard, the roof cedar shingled, with a cool, inviting screened-in porch on front. The path was climbing as they approached Willis and Curtis’s house, a tall, two-and-a-half-story Victorian affair, complete with gingerbread around the porch, the windows and shutters, the pitch of the roof, and along the top roof line. It was done in typical Victorian colors: a marshmallow sundae of pastel pink, sky blue, fern green, deep plum, and orchid. Giddy was the best word to describe this authentic remnant of an earlier century.
“I’ll see if they’ve returned yet,” Franklin announced as he stepped up onto the front porch and turned the butterfly key set into the door. Inside a bell could be heard. No one answered.
“There’s a path over here leading down to the beach. A bit steep, so watch your step,” Franklin instructed them. He began the descent as the path cut downwards across the face of the cliff, then turned abruptly and continued down in the opposite direction, making one last turn and ending as it reached the white sandy beach.
Pat looked up at the cliff overhead. “About sixty feet high, right?” he asked Franklin.
“More like sixty-five, actually.”
“A person could be killed, falling from that height,” Phillis observed.
“Someone did. Victoria Grayson. It’s her house the Reitmans want to buy.”
“You didn’t tell us that,” Pat said reproachfully.
“You didn’t ask, my boy. Besides, it was an accident. Vickie had, well... let’s say she had been out to dinner, had several drinks, and came home. She obviously went out for a walk, maybe to sober up a bit, and came too close to the edge of the cliff.”
“How very sad,” Phillis said. “Was she young?”
“Late twenties. Charming young woman. We all miss her.”
“Death in such a beautiful setting.” Phillis looked away from the cliff and turned her gaze towards the ocean. In the distance where water met sky, a speck was moving, possibly a freighter headed towards the port of New York.
“Et in Arcadia,” the Latin teacher said sadly, then in an upbeat tone added, “Shall we?” He began trudging through the soft sand.
“Rather warm here, isn’t it?” Phillis asked.
“Yes, with the cliff so close to the water’s edge, we don’t get much of a breeze down here on this portion of the beach. In the height of summer you have to go to another part of the beach, either north or south of here, if you want to be cool. But in the fall, it’s still delightful here for sunbathing and, in fact, even in the dead of winter, if you dress properly, you can come down here and sit and enjoy the sun and watch the waves as they break on that jetty.” He pointed towards a stone pier projecting out into the water. “If Curtis and Willis are here, they usually go north, to Sachs Beach.” He headed in a northerly direction, Pat and Phillis at his side.
They walked, Phillis admiring the houses built along the shore which was sloping down to a point off in the distance level with the beach. “How come you never bought a summer house?” she asked Pat.
He shrugged. “Like I told you, Franklin wanted me to buy the one that’s up for sale now.”
“Good thing you didn’t. That threatening phone call could have been meant for you.”
“I think I see our two sun worshippers ahead,” Franklin said. “Yes, see? On a large red blanket. Next to a blue umbrella. They look like a pair of salt and pepper shakers someone has tipped over.” He called out their names.
The two young men lifted their sun-warmed bodies as they rose up on their elbows and looked in the direction of Franklin’s voice.
“Your tan is coming along nicely,” he said to Curtis.
“Oh, deliver us from these pale wasps who think they’re stand-up comics,” Curtis said and sat upright. He was in his late twenties, slender and tall. He smiled and his eyes, green enough to be called emerald, twinkled.
“Only the outbreak of World War III could have brought the don down from his aerie atop yonder cliff,” Willis said as he stood up. He was five years older than Curtis and somewhat shorter. What he lacked in height, he compensated in brawn. It was obvious he worked on keeping himself in shape. His dark hair, thick eyebrows, and heavy outline of a beard added to the rugged image. He, too, smiled, and asked, “Company?”
“Yes, dear boys, I would like you to meet two civilized visitors: Miss Phillis Toner and her brother, Patrick Montgomary. I trust you will know how to behave yourselves in the presence of sophisticated urbanites?”
“If we have lived with your pomposity, Professor, we certainly can conduct ourselves properly in anyone’s presence,” Curtis said as he held out his hand to shake first Phillis’, then Pat’s. “Welcome to Maris Cove, even if you are friends of Franklin’s.”
Willis added, “Welcome, even if you’re not friends of Franklin’s.”
“How about sharing that blanket and let an ancient wise man sit down?” Franklin asked.
“Certainly.” Curtis looked around, then asked: “Where is he?”
“Lucky for you two I never had you in any of my classes,” Franklin said as he lowered himself onto the blanket.
“Now, that would have been cruel and unusual punishment,” Willis mumbled.
“He was my Latin teacher,” Pat told them.
Both Willis and Curtis shook their heads in mock sympathy. “I hope the rehabilitation treatment you had to undergo later wasn’t too painful,” Curtis said.
“Ignore them both,” Franklin told Pat.
“We have a spare,” Willis said as he unfolded another blanket, a mate to the first, spread it out on the ground and motioned for Pat and Phillis to be seated.
“It is so very beautiful here,” Phillis said as she gazed out over the sea.
Everyone agreed.
Franklin began relating the message he had received regarding the Reitmans.
“I’ll be damned,” Willis said. “You mean...?”
Franklin nodded. “Yes, someone has said that one of the Reitmans will meet with an accident if we permit them to buy the vacant house. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Pat repeated his advice that the police be notified.
“And none of the others agreed to that, right,” Willis said, rather than asked. “Not surprising. Those old gals wouldn’t want the police poking their noses around here, not with--”
Curtis coughed and Willis stopped in mid-sentence.
“You were about to say?” Pat asked Willis.
“Oh, nothing, really,” Willis said nervously.
“You’ve opened your big mouth, so you might as well continue,” Curtis said to his partner. To Pat, he said, “Willis Umstead. The family thought it wiser to drop the ‘B,’ but he’s still a Bumstead, always with one foot in his mouth. Go ahead, dear, tell the nice people why the wicked witches don’t want the bobbies looking around.”
“It’s nothing really that important,” Willis began. “A while back, a year or so ago, Lorraine Cairens had a breakdown. Just your everyday, run-of-the-mill nervous breakdown, but someone swore she tried to kill them. One of the neighbors up the road, a woman who lives on Route 9, swore Lorraine deliberately tried to run over her. The police were here and if it weren’t for the Cairens’ money and influence, she might have been charged. Instead, she ‘went away for a rest.’ Everyone knows where she went: a private sanitarium in Bucks County, the kind of place for the wealthy who need protection from the authorities. No one wants that reopened.”
“She’s all right now?” Phillis asked.
“Sane as the rest of us,” Curtis answered.
“That’s not saying much,” Willis mumbled.
“Do you think Lorraine Cairens made that telephone call you got this morning?” Pat asked Franklin.
There was an awkward moment before Franklin answered. “No, I do not. I definitely do not think so.”
“Ditto,” Curtis said.
“Me, too,” Willis added.
“So, what you are saying is that she’s recovered, wouldn’t make threats?” Pat asked.
Franklin, Curtis, and Willis nodded in unison.
“If the telephone call came from someone in Maris Cove, who would be the likely candidate?” Pat next asked them.
Willis took up the reply. “Well, besides us two--don’t forget, we could be demented homicidal lunatics--there’s Franklin here. Too prim and proper to do such a thing. Doubt if he’d know how to call himself on the phone. And there’s Gwynne Valentine. Precious little I’d put past her. The Naimans: Estelle possibly; Rudy never. Jessie Fennshaw. A hard call. Finally, Lorraine, Max, and Hildegaarde Cairens.”
“Hildegaarde?” Pat asked.
“Max’s mother,” Willis told him. “She likes to think of herself as the matriarch of the family.”
“So, that makes ten,” Pat said.
“You’re forgetting someone,” Phillis said.
The others began to protest that they had counted everyone.
“The Reitmans,” Phillis said. She spoke the word softly.
“But why the Reitmans?” Pat asked.
“I can think of at least two good reasons. If one of them doesn’t want to buy the house, but the other insists, it would be one way to try to stop the sale from going through. The one who doesn’t want to buy could use that telephone call as an excuse for backing out of the deal. On the other hand, if they both want to purchase that house, this could be their way of buying insurance. It’s just possible that someone here told them how to go about it: By making a threatening phone call, none of the residents here would back down to threats, but would be all the more determined to vote them in.”
“Yes, yes, that would make sense, too,” Franklin agreed.
“I wonder if Max Cairens has been told yet and if so, has he called the Reitmans. It would be most interesting to hear their reaction to all this.” Pat directed his question towards Franklin
Franklin took his cue and looked at his watch. “We can go up and find out. I’ll call Lorraine from my house and see what she has to say.”
The beach party broke up, Franklin, Phillis, and Willis walking ahead. Pat and Curtis followed.
“Are you staying long?” Curtis asked.
“A couple of days. We haven’t actually decided yet.”
“Your sister is attractive as well as intelligent.”
Pat agreed silently.
They walked for a while without speaking, then Curtis stopped and stared at Pat.
“What’s the matter?” Pat asked.
Curtis waited a while before answering, as though he wanted to put more distance between them and the others walking ahead. He lowered his voice.
“If that telephone call came from someone here at Maris Cove, Mr. Montgomary, that means we have a very sick person in our midst.” With that last remark, Curtis hurried to catch up with the rest of the party. “Hey, wait for us,” he called out.
The full import of the two statements made by this young man, connecting Phillis with the danger implied in that threatening telephone call, were not lost on Pat. Curtis was not merely expressing concern for Phillis’ safety. There was also a not-completely-hidden threat in his words.
CHAPTER IV
Franklin and his guests returned to his house where he called Lorraine Cairens. She told him she had been able to contact her husband.
“What was Max’s reaction?” Franklin asked.
“What I would have expected. He sloughed it off as the action of a crank, said we should ignore it, and go on with the election this evening.”
Pat, who was also on the telephone, asked: “Did he agree someone should call the Reitmans?”
“Finally. I had to convince him they should be told, just in case whoever made that call is in earnest. We’d all feel pretty terrible if something happened and we didn’t tell them and give them the option of pulling out of this deal.”
“So he’s going to call them?”
“He already has. In fact, I just got off the telephone with him not two minutes before you called me.”
“And their reaction to all this?”
“Max could only reach Mr. Reitman, so we don’t know how his wife is taking it, even if she’s been told by this time. Adam Reitman is of the same opinion as Max. Seems to think it’s someone who wants the property for himself and is trying to scare them away. Anyway, Mr. Reitman insists we go ahead as planned and let him know the minute we’ve decided. They’re driving here later today and will be staying at a nearby motel. Says he and his wife are as anxious as ever to live here.”
“That sort of settles it, doesn’t it?” Franklin thanked Lorraine and hung up.
“So, we’re on as planned,” he told his house guests. “If you two will excuse me, I want to lie down for a little while before getting ready for this evening. Please make yourselves at home. Help yourselves to food in the kitchen, if you get hungry. Dinner at the Cairens won’t be until rather late. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” He started up the stairs to the upper level.
“Want to go for a walk?” Pat asked Phillis.
“Where’s to walk?”
“For one place, I’d like to see that empty house the Reitmans are so anxious to buy. Want to?”
She jumped up. “Always enjoy empty houses. Give me a few minutes to change out of this bathing suit.”
“Should we take the path past the front of the Cairens’ place?” she asked as she came back downstairs. “Or would you rather take the other path around back?”
“Let’s go the back way.”
Outside, they turned left, crossed the road which ran past Franklin’s house, and walked alongside a wooden fence which surrounded the Cairens’ swimming pool. The empty house was on the far side of the main house, and was something of a twin to Franklin’s, although not identical. They approached it from behind. There was a small enclosed garden in the rear, now gone to seed. As they stood at the back gate, they looked up and saw three windows on the second floor. Above those was a steeply pitched roof with a small window set in what must, they decided, be the attic. As he leaned on it, the gate swung open and Pat looked at Phillis. “Shall we?” he asked.
She stepped in ahead of him. “Shame to see a garden like this,” she observed as she kicked several dead, dried-out remnants of tomato plants with the tip of her shoe. “The basil is doing well, but then it usually does.”
They went up to the back door and peeked in through the window. They could see it was a kitchen. Pat tried the door. To his surprise, it opened. There was a table in the middle of the room with chairs at it. To their right was a sink with a window looking out towards the side of the Cairens’ property. Along the wall directly ahead of them were a stove, refrigerator, and work counter. On their left, as they entered, was more storage and work space, and a doorway in the corner.
They walked through this doorway into a small hall. Ahead of them were two rooms and connecting bath, which they decided must be sitting room and bedroom, possibly for a live-in maid. They returned to the kitchen, then took a hall which ran past a dining room, and entered upon a living room, which was somewhat larger than Franklin’s. There were several pieces of furniture: a blue and white striped satin tuxedo-style sofa and one blue velvet wingback, both showing stains and wear, a table with lamp atop, and a framed print of a scantily clad classical maiden leaning against a marble pillar, with moonlight in the background shining on a lake.
“Needs a decorator, wouldn’t you say?” Phillis asked as she stood in the middle of this room. “Looks like a clearance sale at Goodwill. Let’s see what’s upstairs.” Without waiting for Pat to agree, she raced up the stairs.
Unlike Franklin’s house, the second floor of this house once owned by Vickie Grayson did not have a balcony overlooking the living room. Instead, the staircase met a small hall which then turned left towards the center of the second floor with two bedrooms to the right, sharing the rear half of the house. The front of this second floor was taken up by a master bedroom and bath.
Phillis did not stop when she reached the second-floor landing, but called down to Pat: “C’mon up. Who knows, there might be a body in one of the bedrooms.”
“I have a ghoul for a sister,” he muttered as he climbed the staircase. The third step from the top squeaked as he stepped on it.
There was a bed in one of the two rear bedrooms; the other was totally bare. They moved to the front of the house and opened the shut door to find this bedroom fully furnished, right down to linens and a floral bedspread on the mahogany bed with its carved bedposts. A woman’s toilet set was spread out on the dresser top. Phillis picked up a hair brush, turned it over, mumbled, “Brunette,” and put it back.
Pat had gone into a walk-in closet. “A few more or less worthless articles of clothing in there,” he announced as he came out.
“We should have asked Franklin about the previous owner.” Phillis walked over to the window, which looked down on a portion of the open space around which the other Maris Cove houses were assembled. To her left, she could see another house. “There’s a perfect view of the Naimans’ place.” She spun around and stared at her brother. “Franklin did say Vickie Grayson fell to her death off the cliff, didn’t he?”
Pat did not answer her question directly. Instead, he said, “I have a feeling.”
“Somehow, I thought it was time you had one of them.” She walked towards him. “What’s it this time?”
“The person... the woman... who lived here was not happy.”
“Very few people are.”
“You know what I mean. Unhappy. There’s a terrible sadness all over this place. Houses can be sad, you know. Like pets, they know when their owners are unhappy and they take on some of their pain. I feel I have to find out more about her.”
“Did you look in the bathroom?”
“Not yet.”
She went into that room. He could hear her opening the medicine cabinet, moving the shower curtain, lifting the tank lid. “Miss Grayson’s bathroom is the only interesting room in this house,” she decreed as she came back into the bedroom. There was something playfully superior in her tone. “First of all, she had excellent taste and didn’t mind spending money or have someone spend it on her; was not celibate; had a man who occasionally spent the night here with her; and was under serious stress.”
“You found all that out by looking in her bathroom?”
“Certainly. The few cosmetics left behind are all very expensive, the kind you find only in the most exclusive shops. You don’t buy them if you’re watching your pennies or don’t have a rich daddy.”
“The non-celibate bit?”
“Container for birth control pills. Ergo, she had or at least hoped to have sex.”
“And the boyfriend bit? Let me guess. You found a razor.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you saw a razor and, I suppose, shave cream in the medicine chest and you jumped to the conclusion she had a boyfriend who stayed over. She could have used them herself.”
“Possibly, but I doubt it. Anyone who spends a fortune on the kind of cosmetics she had, uses only the very finest shampoos and conditioners, even has specially blended powders, does not shave her own legs. She has them done in a salon along with pedicures, facials, the works. But since there was no other trace of a man’s presence in the house, I presume he only stayed here on rare occasions.”
“The stress?”
Phillis opened her hand and showed Pat a half-full plastic medicine bottle.
He nodded. “That’s a pretty strong anti-depressant.”
“Prescribed by Sandra Prough, M.D.” She put the bottle in her purse.
“Now that you’ve done a personality autopsy on the former resident of this house, don’t you think it proper for us to leave?” Pat asked as he walked towards the bedroom doorway.
Phillis agreed and they were soon outside again.
“When we get back, I want Franklin to tell us more, much more, about the woman who lived in that house,” Phillis said.
They were walking more or less aimlessly along the road which went past the front of Rudolph and Estelle Naiman’s property, then past Jessie Fennshaw’s. They walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out over the ocean.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “In fact, if you don’t I will. I said I had an uneasy feeling about her and I know it won’t go away until I find out more.”
“You’ve known Franklin for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Quarter of a century. What do you think of him?”
“Very nice. I can see where people would take to him right away.” She stopped talking, just looking out to sea. After a while, she spoke: “Pat?” She turned away from the view and looked at him.
“What is it?”
“Would Franklin ever lie to you?”
“Lie? I... I don’t think so. At least, I’d like to believe he’d never lie to me. No, never. Why do you ask?”
“Could I wait before I answer that question? I need to ask Franklin something first. Think he’d be up by this time?”
Pat looked at his watch. “Maybe not, but we should get back. Sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re up to?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, as soon as we see Franklin again. Let’s go back to his house. There’s something I’ve just got to ask him or go crazy.”
“We can’t have that. C’mon, let’s go.”
They walked along the path which followed the edge of the cliff, then continued on until they reached Curtis and Willis’ house, then past Gwynne Valentine’s, and finally completed the circle as they reached the front of Franklin’s place. As they came into the living room, they heard footsteps upstairs.
Pat glanced upwards. “We better wait until he comes down. Fix you a drink?”
They were almost through their drinks when Franklin appeared at the balcony overhead. “Off to the meeting of the Star Chamber,” he announced as he came down the stairs. “Do I look impressive enough to have the future of yuppiedom in my hands?”
“You look impressive enough,” Pat told him.
“And charming,” Phillis added.
“Time for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, Pat went over to the liquor cabinet across the room. “Manhattan? Don’t know how you can drink those things. Too strong for me.” He brought the cocktail over to Franklin, who was seated.
“We got a look at the house the Reitmans want to buy,” he said as he sat down.
“Would you tell us about the former owner?” Phillis asked.
Franklin stared rather intently at Phillis before answering. “Why, yes, certainly. There really isn’t much I can tell you about Victoria Grayson. We were all very fond of her. A great loss to all of us.”
“There’s still some of her stuff in the house,” Pat said.
“You were inside the house?” Franklin looked surprised.
“We confess we were. The door was open and we couldn’t resist the temptation to go through it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Good heavens, no! I’m only upset that the doors are not locked. They should be, of course. Maybe the Reitmans left them open when they were in there.”
“Was Miss Grayson’s death recent?” Phillis pressed her question.
“About a month ago. No, I take that back. More like six, possibly seven weeks ago. My, how the time does fly by.”
“I do hope you won’t think me impossibly nosey, but... you said, well, that she fell from the cliff. Was there any question at the time that someone might have helped her over the edge?”