Harbour Falls

Chapter 23



The shock of it all knocked the wind out of me, I truly couldn’t breathe. I dropped to my knees, my heart hammering in my chest. My gaze swept over Jimmy’s still form. Nobody could lose this much blood and be alive. My mind refused to accept it though. I placed a shaky hand along the cool skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse. Please, even a weak one, I prayed.

But nothing, nothing. Jimmy was dead.

I yanked my hand back and watched helplessly as the pool of blood beneath his head slowly widened. Sickened, I scooted away and fumbled in my bag for my cell. Once in my shaky grasp—with Jimmy’s blood on my hands, literally and figuratively—I dialed 911. And then I dropped the phone back into my bag and waited.

So much blood, there was so much blood. In my left hand, I was still clenching the envelope I’d stepped on. Loosening my grip, I glanced down. The “M” on the front, now smudged with Jimmy’s spilled blood, taunted me. Though the envelope was empty, I was sure it had once contained the photograph I’d come to pick up. But now that picture was gone. And Jimmy was dead.

Was he dead because he’d been trying to help me with the case? God, I prayed not, but my instincts told me that was the case. I felt numb. Someone had taken a drastic step to ensure the picture remained hidden. Who would murder someone over a picture? The person responsible for Chelsea’s disappearance, my mind whispered.

Yeah, that—or someone close to the individual responsible. The fact that a person would go to these lengths strengthened my conviction that the picture somehow held the key to Chelsea’s disappearance. That blonde mystery woman knew something.

I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but hope Jimmy had remembered to make a copy of the photo and mailed it to me. Because now it was my only chance of ever finding out who was in that picture with Chelsea Hannigan.

The wailing of the sirens grew closer and closer, until the cacophony was joined by the flashing of red and blue lights as they pulsed through the single glass block window cut into the front of Billy’s. Several officers of the Harbourtown police department burst through the front door, but I was unable to move. So I stayed where I was—kneeling on the dusty, wooden floor, next to a kid lying dead in his own blood. My left hand twitched, and I realized I was still holding onto the potentially incriminating envelope. Only it wasn’t just an envelope, it was Jimmy’s death warrant. And it had been signed, so to speak, with my initial. It had to go. I scanned the area for a place to dispose of it.

The police were approaching, and I panicked. Fearing that I’d be implicated in Jimmy’s murder, I crumpled the envelope— inadvertently smearing more blood along the front and back—and quickly tossed it into a trash container tucked beneath the bar.

When I glanced back up, a young officer was before me, offering his hand. I searched his face to see if he had seen what I’d done, but there was nothing to indicate he’d caught me throwing the envelope into the trash can. In fact, he graciously helped me to my feet and then told me his name, asked if I was OK.

Did I look like I was OK? The name went in one ear and out the other, but I did have the wherewithal to nod that I was—at least physically—unharmed. He led me away from Jimmy’s lifeless body to a table in the back room. He wanted me out of the way, but in a place so small, I still had a pretty good view of the Harbourtown PD as they moved around the body like bees around a hive, processing the crime scene.

I sank into a wood chair at the table, and the young officer told me to remain where I was. He said a detective would be over to speak with me shortly. I nodded absently, but I don’t think he even took notice. He was too busy staring at my bloody hands. He pulled several napkins from a metal dispenser atop the table, handed them to me with a shake of his head, and then left me alone.

The blood on my hands—so sticky, still wet—made my stomach roil. Disgusted, I scrubbed at the gloppy, red mess as best as I could. I wanted it off, off, off. But even as my hands grew sore from the intense rubbing I employed, they still retained a faint pink tint. I choked down the lump rising in my throat and tossed the soiled napkins into a pile on the edge of the table. I surveyed the rest of my body. Besides a long, diagonal streak of blood smeared across the front of my beige sweater—I must have wiped my hand without realizing it—there was no more evidence of Jimmy’s demise marking me.

Now that I was as cleaned up as I was going to be until I could take a shower, I resumed watching the flurry of activity surrounding Jimmy’s body. More importantly I listened carefully to what was being said…

Jimmy Kingston—,whose last name I’d never taken the time to learn—was pronounced dead at 12:48 p.m., though the coroner who had arrived on the scene a few minutes before, and was now barking this information out, estimated the actual time of death to have occurred roughly an hour prior.

That meant I had just missed the killer. A chill ran down my spine at the thought.

Cause of death: a single bullet wound to the head. Ballistics: Jimmy was shot with a .38 caliber weapon, at close range.

The gun I’d come across in Adam’s desk drawer flashed through my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. After all, lots of people owned that particular type of firearm.

No sign of a struggle.

Jimmy had either known the individual who’d shot him, or he hadn’t seen the individual as a threat. Someone pretending to be a customer, most likely. Or had it been someone he recognized?

An officer with a portable fingerprinting kit was lifting prints from the half-full glass of beer still perched on the bar. He was telling another officer that the only prints found, so far, belonged to the victim—Jimmy.

Maybe the killer had worn gloves? Or maybe Jimmy had poured the beer for himself?

Another officer chimed in that the surveillance video that would have captured the perp’s entrance and exit from the bar was missing. It was becoming apparent that the person responsible for Jimmy’s death had been smart and thorough.

No money was missing. So a robbery-gone-wrong was ruled out. It was clear from the snippets of conversation I picked up that the police were coming to the conclusion that Jimmy had been the intended target. Something I already knew.

And I was damned sure I knew the reason why, but I couldn’t exactly tell the police. Hell, I’d been snooping around in an unsolved mystery, illegally obtaining case files from my dad, and paying cash for potential evidence in the cold case. Yeah, probably best to keep quiet.

I looked away, and when I turned back, a handsome, rugged-looking man with tousled brown hair was making his way toward me. A second later he was at the table. “I’m Detective Mitchell, homicide division,” he said, introducing himself with a somber nod. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”

Saying I didn’t feel up to it wasn’t really an option, I knew this. Detective Mitchell was just being nice. He was going to make sure he got his answers, and he was going to do it before I had a chance to think too much about my responses. So I nodded and exhaled slowly. “Sure, that’ll be fine.”

The detective sat down and took out a small, tattered, spiral-bound notepad and a pen. The questioning then began.

“What’s your full name? Miss…?” he asked.

“Fitch,” I replied. “Madeleine Fitch.”

He paused, looking up from where he jotted down my name in the tattered notebook, and met my eyes. “You related to Mayor Fitch over in Harbour Falls?”

“Yes.” I choked on the word, wincing. “I’m his daughter.” My dad was going to be hurt and disappointed that I’d hardly stayed “out of trouble.”

“Mayor Fitch is a good man,” Detective Mitchell declared, his light brown eyes softening. “So where do you live? Harbour Falls?”

I shook my head. “No, I live on Fade Island.”

The detective’s face grew troubled. “That your permanent residence?” He sounded doubtful.

“No,” I answered, “my permanent home is in Los Angeles.”

He scribbled something down in his notebook. “Occupation?” he continued without looking up.

“I’m a writer.”

Detective Mitchell lifted his gaze, eyeing me with a sudden sense of recognition. He then asked quietly, “Mystery novels, right?”

I just nodded, noticing he didn’t write anything down about that. He just continued to watch me, tapping his pen a couple of times on the table. Tap, tap, tap. I shifted in my seat nervously.

“Fade Island is a rather, uh, mysterious place in its own right.” He paused, one sharper tap. “Isn’t it, Miss Fitch?”

“I guess,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t sound as shaky to him as it did to me.

Detective Mitchell’s eyes didn’t waver. “And what brought you to an establishment like Billy’s today?”

“Ummm…” I faltered and then offered timidly, “A drink.”

Detective Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Were you acquainted with the victim, Jimmy Kingston?”

I glanced down at my blood-tinged hands, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. “Only from being in here twice before,” I said, my voice soft, unconvincing.

Two more taps of the pen from the good detective. “And why were you here those other times, Miss Fitch?” He hesitated and then added dryly, “For a drink, no doubt?”

“Yes,” I lied.

A stretch of uncomfortable silence filled the air between us. “Tell me, Madeleine… May I call you Madeleine?” I nodded, and he continued, “Billy’s is a little off the beaten path and really quite a hike from Fade Island. Do you always travel so far from home for a drink?”

I bristled, knowing Detective Mitchell was trying to trap me up. He surely suspected there was more to my visit, and he was right. But it wasn’t like I could tell him the truth.

Mustering all the indignation I could—because really I needed to in order to sound convincing—I retorted, “Yes, Detective, I do when I’m meeting a friend for lunch here in Harbourtown.”

I hated to drag Helena into my mess, but I couldn’t see any way around it with this turn in the questioning.

Detective Mitchell snapped, “Does this friend have a name?”

“Helena Jackson.”

A flicker of something—recognition, a memory?—crossed his face. Detective Mitchell was no rookie, and I suspected he’d seen all the evidence related to the Harbour Falls Mystery. Hell, he’d probably worked it.

“And you were meeting this Helena Jackson for lunch today?”

“Yes.”

“When and where?” he asked curtly, his pen poised over his notebook.

I pulled nervously at the sleeves of my sweater. I hated the thought of Helena finding out I was not here in Harbourtown to pick something up for Adam. I hated that I’d lied to her, and I felt even worse for breaking my promise to Adam. In fact, I didn’t care to even imagine his reaction when he found out what had happened. He’d repeatedly warned me to stay away from Billy’s. If only I had listened.

Detective Mitchell was still waiting, so I said, “We were supposed to meet at two o’clock at Peppio’s.”

He raised his arm, glanced at his watch. When he lowered his wrist, I caught the time—1:40. Mitchell called over the young officer who’d helped me to the table earlier and gave him instructions to go to the restaurant to see if there really was a Helena Jackson waiting there for me.

The detective asked a few more questions and then, with a flip of his tattered notebook, informed me he’d like for me to accompany him to the station to enter a more official statement. Official statement, the police station, I knew those things didn’t bode well for me. I needed an attorney and probably a very competent one at that. I asked Detective Mitchell if he was arresting me. He said no.

After he tucked his notebook and pen back into his pocket, he stood up and told me to meet him outside in five minutes. I was to leave my car here; he’d drive me to the station. OK, I wasn’t being arrested, but there was no question the detective was making damn sure I’d be entering that formal statement today.

When he left, I pulled out my cell phone. I was much too humiliated to call my dad, so I pulled up Adam’s number instead. My finger hovered over the keys. Was I really going to ask for Adam’s help? Did I have a choice?

Taking a deep breath, I pressed send.





Several hours later I found myself, once more, seated across from Detective Mitchell. Only this time we sat in metal chairs, a rectangular table made of wood between us. We were at the Harbourtown police station in one of the bland interrogation rooms. Scuffed, eggshell-colored walls surrounded us, and a darkened mirror—two-way glass, no doubt—reflected my troubled visage back to me.

I looked down, scanning the items on the table. A recording device, a small microphone canted in a stand, a bunch of loose papers, and Detective Mitchell’s tattered notebook, his pen clipped to the front cover.

The detective had softened somewhat on the way to the station. Apparently he and his partner, Detective Crowley, had known my dad for several years. Though they were not friends per se, he told me he liked and respected my father. No surprise, since most people did, but it didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I only felt worse. I’d disappointed my dad, and he didn’t even know it yet. But once we arrived at the station, I knew that would soon change.

As Detective Mitchell had led me to the interrogation room, the inquisitive stares of the men and women in blue had fixed on me, recognition in the eyes of more than a few. Yeah, it was only a matter of time before someone picked up the phone and told Mayor Fitch his daughter was about to be officially questioned in the murder—yes, the murder—of Jimmy Kingston.

Sitting here now in interrogation room number two and imagining those conversations, my face heated. I glanced up at the big institutional clock on the wall—almost five o’clock. We’d been waiting roughly three hours since I’d been in touch with Adam, but he still wasn’t here. I guessed finding a defense attorney on such short notice took time.

When I’d talked with Adam, he’d been surprisingly calm. Having just arrived back on the island, he took it in stride when he learned of my predicament. My broken promise, my lies, my new status as a suspect in Jimmy’s murder, yeah, all that. I suspected Adam was probably just saving his wrath for when he saw me.

In any case he’d calmly informed me he’d contact a defense attorney he knew in Harbour Falls—a man named Elliott Hoffman. I’d heard of him from the newspapers and he was definitely the kind of attorney I was going to need. One who could get a person out of a jam. Adam’s plan was to come over to the mainland, have Hoffman pick him up at Cove Beach, and then head over to the Harbourtown police station. I glanced back up at the clock, but only two minutes had passed.

“More coffee?” Detective Mitchell asked, nodding to the almost-empty paper cup clutched in my hands.

“No, thanks,” I replied.

Mitchell grunted and resumed shuffling papers atop the table, and I choked down the last of my cold coffee.

Just then the door to the interrogation room opened. I breathed a sigh of relief when Adam stepped in, a short, balding man with unassuming features—the defense attorney, I presumed—trailing behind. I felt confident this Elliott Hoffman was more than capable, but when his sharp, unwavering lawyer eyes scanned the room like a hawk, I knew he was the perfect attorney for this situation.

Introductions were made, and I shook his hand. “Don’t worry, Ms. Fitch,” he said to me. “We’ll get you out of here in no time.”

He shot Detective Mitchell a look that said he meant business. I felt instantly relieved. I needed the best, and Adam had obviously brought me—and bought me—the very best. I felt confident this attorney would sooner have the Harbourtown police for dinner than allow them to detain me past the time it took to take my statement. Let alone if they tried to arrest me.

Confirming my impressions, his eyes on Mitchell, Hoffman said tightly, “Let’s get this over with, Detective. I believe you’ve wasted enough of my client’s time today.”

“We’ll see about that, Mr. Hoffman,” Mitchell replied, handing him back the business card Elliott Hoffman had thrust into his hand during the introductions.

Adam cleared his throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but before you begin, I’d like a moment alone with Ms. Fitch.”

I knew Detective Mitchell could deny his request, but he didn’t. I couldn’t say I was all that surprised, as Adam always seemed to get his way. The detective and the attorney left, closing the door behind them, and Adam came over to stand next to where I was seated.

I’d been careful to avoid meeting Adam’s gaze up to this point. I had to admit I was ashamed that I’d brought this on myself, by not heeding his warnings to stay away from Billy’s.

Adam coughed to get my attention, and I tentatively looked up. His pained blue eyes were locked on my bloodstained sweater. He reached out and traced the streak that had dried to a brick color, and then he swept me out of the chair and into his arms. “God, Maddy, are you all right?” His words were muffled as he held on tight with his head lowered, speaking into my shoulder.

I nodded meekly, tears filling my eyes at last. I hadn’t cried once, until now.

“I’m so sorry, Adam. I should have listened,” I choked, my tears moistening the smooth, light blue fabric of his button-down.

“Shhh,” he soothed, lifting his head. “I’m just thankful you’re fine. Let’s just get this unpleasantness over with and get you back home. Sound good?”

I nodded, words eluding me. Adam’s kindness was making me feel guiltier than ever for breaking my promise. I sobbed, fisting the back of his shirt in my hand as he tightened his hold. There was so much more I needed to say, and I wanted to stay wrapped up in his warmth forever, but a sharp knock on the door ended our embrace as well as any further time to talk.

Adam took a step back, hands on my shoulders. “Remember, don’t answer anything Elliott advises you not to.” His tone was gravely serious. “Understood?”

I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Yes.”

Elliott Hoffman and Detective Mitchell stepped back into the room, and Adam trailed a finger down my cheek, wiping away the last of my tears.

As I sat back down, I overheard Mitchell telling Adam there was a waiting room down the hall where he could wait until we were finished with the interrogation. After Adam left, Hoffman sat down next to me, and the detective returned to his seat on the other side of the table.

The formal questioning was much like it had been at the bar—just variations of the same questions—but with the same gist. Hoffman took copious notes, nodding after each of Mitchell’s questions, thus indicating it was permissible for me to answer each one. I sensed Detective Mitchell suspected there was more to my visit to Billy’s, but he didn’t press. Not with my new attorney present. But I was sure he’d do some digging, and when armed with more information, he’d confront me, attorney or not.

Just as Mitchell was wrapping up, the interrogation room door burst open. Another detective I recognized from earlier at the bar entered the room, and Mitchell rose to greet him. As they stood speaking in voices too low for me to hear, I tried to assess this new development.

Hoffman appeared to be unaffected, glancing up with a bored expression and then returning to his notes. But the detective having a heated discussion with Mitchell was definitely unhappy about something. This new detective was a tall man with gray-streaked dark hair. I estimated his age to be about mid-forties. And as his cold, dark eyes flashed to me, I started to get the feeling this man’s displeasure had something to do with me.

Hoffman suddenly cleared his throat, startling me and interrupting the detectives. “Pardon me, but if we are finished here, I’m sure my client would like to get home after her very trying day.”

Mitchell held up his hand. “Not quite yet, Counsel, we’re going to need a few more minutes. My partner here, Detective Crowley, has a few more questions for Miss Fitch.”

“Five minutes,” Hoffman snapped, his tone firm. “My client has already proven to be more than cooperative.”

Detective Mitchell appeared apologetic but not Detective Crowley. No, not at all.

Instead he approached the table, glowering at me. “Ms. Fitch,” he began, pacing the floor with his fingers steepled in front of him. “Is it true your official statement is that you and the victim, James Kingston, had no more of an involved relationship than that of customer and bartender?”

Hoffman nodded to me, so I answered, “Yes, that’s correct.”

Crowley stopped and turned to face me. “If that is indeed the case, then tell us please, Ms. Fitch, why did the victim call your cell phone yesterday afternoon?”

Oh no! I looked to Hoffman, unsure of how to respond. He shook his head and answered for me, “My client has no comment.”

Detective Mitchell—who had been relegated to a corner of the room—caught my eye. Disappointment was written all over his face. Yeah, Mayor Fitch’s daughter had lied to the police. Sorry.



Detective Crowley addressed my attorney, smugness in his tone. “Clearly, the record speaks for itself, Mr. Hoffman.”

“There’s no proof the cell phone you are referring to was even in my client’s possession yesterday,” Hoffman countered smoothly.

Oooh, he is good, I thought.



Crowley smirked at my attorney and said slowly, “There’s also no proof that it wasn’t in her possession.” The detective paused momentarily and then redirected all of his anger back on me. “Ms. Fitch, are you familiar with terms like ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘tampering with evidence’?”

Hoffman stiffened but nodded for me to proceed. “Yes.” My voice was no more than a whisper.

And then, to my absolute horror, Detective Crowley produced the crumpled, white envelope—tainted with Jimmy’s blood—and threw it on the table. It was now sealed in a plastic “evidence” bag, but the printed “M” on the front was facing up, mocking my sad attempt at deception. I kept my eyes glued to the envelope, afraid to meet any of the questioning eyes I felt upon me.

“Would you care to explain why this”—Crowley tapped the incriminating evidence—“was found in a trash bin under the bar at Billy’s?” When I didn’t answer, he put his hands on the table and leaned toward me. “Your prints, Ms. Fitch, are all over it!” he hissed.

“I didn’t kill Jimmy,” I suddenly cried out, standing.

I felt Hoffman’s hand on my shaking arm, silencing me, urging me to sit back down. “My client is invoking her fifth amendment rights,” he said sharply, with a light squeeze to my arm to remind me to keep quiet.

Crowley laughed darkly. “Fine, but let me tell you this…” I glanced up, and his eyes locked with mine. “If Bill Fitch wasn’t your father and a man I respect, I’d arrest you right now.”

Detective Mitchell moved in to calm his colleague, while Hoffman interjected, voice raised, “You’re out of line, Detective. I will not allow you to speak to my client in that manner. You have nothing here but circumstantial evidence at best.”

“Bullshit!” Detective Crowley fumed, shucking Mitchell’s hand off his arm. “We have a body and a suspect who is lying. I can name you hundreds of cases where the defendant was convicted on far less!”

Mitchell grabbed Crowley again and this time pulled him back, all the while apologizing for his colleague’s outburst. Hoffman’s only response was to remind both detectives that the five minutes had elapsed, and that we were done here.

Detective Mitchell refused to meet my gaze as my attorney steered me to the door. But Detective Crowley threw me a parting glance that promised he’d not let this slide.

Hoffman led me gently out into the hallway, and I thanked him for everything. He offered to walk me down the hall to the room where Adam was waiting. On the way he assured me there was no need to worry. The evidence was weak. “Circumstantial evidence doesn’t hold much weight with a jury, Ms. Fitch, despite Detective Crowley’s claims to the contrary,” he said.

I didn’t really know what to say in return. God, I sure as hell didn’t want things to get to the point of being arrested, let alone be faced with a trial.

As we walked Elliot Hoffman asked for clarification on a couple of the answers I’d given, but he never once asked me if I was innocent. I didn’t think he really cared. He’d been hired to be my advocate, and he was going to do his job. And, no doubt, he’d do it well.

When we reached the waiting room, I stopped abruptly. I was done thinking about the events of the day. All I wanted to do was fall into Adam’s arms. It was there that I felt safe and protected.

Unfortunately, when we stepped into the room, I realized my plans would have to be put on hold. Adam was not alone. There was somebody else in the room with him, waiting for me and looking less than pleased. It appeared my earlier fears had been confirmed. Someone had contacted my father, and now he was here.

Well this is going to be…awkward, I thought, sighing.