“That’s the spirit,” Gus shouted from the other side of the room. “Solve this mystery, get rid of that damn yellow tape.” He gestured toward the walk-in. “Life goes back to normal.”
Chris didn’t repeat his caution about leaving things to the professionals. He took off, and I went upstairs. I couldn’t easily discover who bought the gift certificates, or who stole them for that matter, if they had, indeed, been stolen, but I could certainly find out how the couples who used them had come by them. I shrugged into my L.L.Bean winter coat and headed for the door.
*
I went to my mom’s and picked up my car, a maroon ’71 Chevy Caprice. It was what Mainers called a “winter beater,” a disposable wreck to be ditched as soon as it needed a major repair. As always, I muttered a little prayer of gratitude when it started. The heater worked sporadically at best. Sometimes it required miles and miles of driving to come up to temperature. Other times it spewed foul-smelling, superheated air. I pulled out of the garage, drove down Main Street, then headed out of town and up the peninsula.
Ten minutes later, I turned off the highway onto the access road for Busman’s Harbor Hospital, passed the hospital, and kept going. The Baywater Community for Active Adults was just a few miles farther down the road, perched on a site that gave most of its homes a good view of Townsend Bay. I slowed as I approached the gatehouse, but the skinny wooden barrier was in the up position. So many retirees from other places came to Maine looking for “gated communities.” It was easier for developers to install these silly structures than to ask the obvious question, “Who do you want to keep out?”
The houses in the community were side-by-side duplexes, single story with huge garages that fronted on the road. There were about a hundred of them, all painted in bright pastels more reminiscent of the tropics than the rugged Maine coast. I crawled along in the Caprice until I spotted the Caswells’ address, 15 Lupine Road. Of the couples who’d used the gift certificates, I knew the Walkers best, but I’d instinctively headed for the Caswells’ house first. Caroline and Henry, with their pixie looks and twinkling eyes, seemed so friendly.
Caroline looked a little puzzled after she answered the bell, but rallied immediately and greeted me graciously. “Julia, please come in.”
We passed through a hallway into a great room that combined living room, dining room, and kitchen. The design was modern, but the Caswells’ furniture was traditional. It must have come from their preretirement family home, wherever that had been.
“Henry’s in his study,” Caroline said. “Let me just call him. Hen-RY! Julia Snowden’s come calling.”
She offered coffee, which I accepted, and the three of us gathered around the glass table where they must eat their informal meals. Through the sliding door, I spotted a full bird feeder on the deck, moving with the wind, ready for winter visitors.
“I assume you’re here to talk about what happened,” Henry said, once we’d settled in.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “That poor man. What Chris and I can’t figure out is how he got in the walk-in. I wondered if you remembered anything.”
Henry’s bright blue eyes met his wife’s brown ones. “The police were here yesterday asking questions. And Caroline and I have talked too, trying to figure it out. It’s unsettling. We were with him that night, and now he’s dead.”
“Had you ever seen the man before?”
“Never,” Henry answered. “Have the police figured out who he was?”
Caroline brought steaming cups of coffee to the table, and I took a sip. It was strong and tasty, warming me from the inside out. Although the Caswells’ home was new and much tighter than the usual drafty Busman’s Harbor dwelling, I was still chilled through from my car ride.
“Not that I know of. Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn are in Augusta today at the autopsy, so I haven’t spoken to them,” I answered. “Did you notice anything in particular about the man who died?”
“Sat at the bar by himself. Wasn’t sociable. Is that what you mean? We told all this to the police,” Henry said.
So they hadn’t noticed the scar and the prosthetic ear. Even when they’d moved into the bar, they’d sat behind him. His dark hair was long and curly. Maybe Chris and I were the only ones who’d noticed, since we faced him from behind the bar. I asked the question that had brought me there. “Just one more thing. You paid partially that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“It came in the mail last week. I assumed it was a promotion to get people to try the restaurant.” Henry looked at me. “It wasn’t?”
“I didn’t mail that gift certificate to you.”