“When you went out with Chris and Phil Bennett to look at the wreck, did you happen to see the stranger then?”
“Nope.” Barry told the same story about their little adventure that Chris and Phil Bennett had, though he left out the part about sliding down the hill on his backside. “It was slippery out as the dickens,” was all he said about it.
I asked another question, even though I knew the probable answer. “You paid that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“No idea. The Mrs. had it. I can ask her if you want me to.”
“No, that’s okay.” I’d have to make a point to talk to Fran later. “Can you think of some reason or some person who would want to gather you and Fran, the Caswells, the Bennetts, and the Smiths at the restaurant on the same evening?”
Barry answered easily, without a sign of worry or stress. “Why would someone do that? I don’t really know any of those people. Phil Bennett’s been in the store buying canvases a couple of times recently, but other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Julia, what’s this about? When Fran and I talked to the police yesterday, they didn’t seem particularly interested in what we had to say. I had the impression they were checking us off a list of obligatory interviews.”
I didn’t want to tell Barry I thought someone had lured him and his wife to the restaurant on the same night there’d been a murder there. I wasn’t sure, for one thing, and there were too many open questions—who, why, and was it in any way connected to the stranger and his death, for a few. So instead, I told a different kind of truth.
“I’ve been uncomfortable about what happened that night. Someone was murdered right downstairs while I was sleeping, and the police have no idea who did it. It’s taken a bit of the wind out of my sails. I was so excited about running the restaurant, but now . . .”
Barry put one of his big, paint-flecked hands over mine on the worktable. “I’m sorry, Julia, this has upset you. I’m sure the police will figure it out soon.”
“Thanks, Barry. I appreciate it.”
“Sure you don’t need any art supplies before you go?”
*
I managed to get out of Walker’s without buying anything. A failed knitting project was all the crafting I could handle. I stood for a moment on the sidewalk in the fading late afternoon light, squared my shoulders and continued about a half a mile down Main Street toward the imposing Victorian facade of the Fogged Inn.
Twice I almost turned around and went back to my apartment. I’d left visiting the Smiths until last, because of all the couples, I knew them the least. Which is to say I didn’t know them at all.
I climbed onto the Fogged Inn’s wide front porch. It was empty of furniture because of the season, but I imagined it was a delightful place to sit and read or simply stare at the boats in the harbor. A sign beside the front door said, WELCOME, and below that a list: NO CHILDREN. NO PETS. NO CHECKS. NO SOLICITATION. NO ACCOMMODATION WITHOUT PRIOR RESERVATION.
For a place meant to be welcoming, the long list of “no’s” had the opposite effect. I took a deep breath and rang the bell. Footsteps echoed inside and the door opened.
“Hullo.” It was Mr. Smith, looking a little fuzzy, like I’d woken him from a nap.
“Whoizzit?” A female voice bellowed from upstairs.
“Why it’s . . .”
“Julia Snowden,” I supplied.
“Julia Snowden,” he shouted back. “You know, from the restaurant.”
“Whazhewant?”
He peered at me expectantly. He was a strikingly handsome older man with long white hair that reminded me of a lion’s mane. He wore gray slacks and a blue shirt with a black belt around his trim waist.
“To talk about the night before last,” I supplied.
He turned to yell this, but there was a creaking on the stairs and Mrs. Smith appeared behind him. “The police have already been here.”
“I understand. This is more something I’m doing on my own.”
“Well then, you better come in.” Mrs. Smith gestured me inside.
Mr. Smith moved away from the door so I could enter, inadvertently backing into his wife. “Watchwhereyergoing!” she barked.
As the three of us stood in the front hallway, I looked through the broad archway into the living room. It was filled with heavy antiques—ponderous chairs, Tiffany lamps, and an uncomfortable-looking sofa. This wasn’t the Old Family Money Beach House Charm that Deborah Bennett had so successfully achieved at her place, or the comfortable, lived-in use of family pieces at the Snuggles. This was in-your-face antiquey-ness.