I gave my credit card number to a genealogy site and found death certificates for the Lowes. Both had died on January 1, 1974, in Guilford, Connecticut. There was no further information available, so I searched the web, hoping for obituaries or an article about their accident, but I found nothing in the major papers. Apparently the local papers in their area hadn’t digitized their back issues yet. The accident was too long ago.
I checked the distance from Busman’s Harbor to Guilford. Two hundred ninety miles, five hours of driving. Binder might have a problem with me tramping around Busman’s Harbor asking people questions, but he couldn’t object to my going to Connecticut. He’d warned me the perpetrator in the case was likely dangerous, but everyone related to the case in Connecticut was dead. That couldn’t be dangerous.
I called Chris. “I have to go to Connecticut.” I said it right out. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“Whoa.” Chris was silent. Maybe I should have built up to it. So I backtracked, filling him in on the events of the morning. Chris asked the obvious question. “Why not let the cops do this?”
“They’re so excited about the backpack and the possibility there’s an ID for the stranger in it. They’ll follow up on what I’ve told them eventually, but in the meantime I’m sick of being afraid in my own home. I’ve been more right than they’ve been all along. The diners are connected to one another, just as I’ve been saying. And now Enid Sparks connects them to the car accident. I have to keep going.”
More silence from the other end. Then Chris said, “Okay. I’ll ask Livvie to help with setup and Sam to help me serve and tend the bar.”
Sam. He was the perfect solution. As part owner of Crowley’s, he’d done every job you could do in a restaurant. And with Crowley’s closed during the week, he was available. I hated asking Livvie to do extra work during her pregnancy, but I knew she would come through for us, with a smile on her face. My sister was reliable like that.
“You shouldn’t drive that heap of yours all that way,” Chris said. “I’m at my cabin. Stop here on your way and switch the Caprice for my cab. It could use the exercise.” The long trips to the Portland Jetport were over for the season.
“Thank you.” How I loved that man.
Chapter 23
I stopped at the Kennebunk rest stop on 95 to stretch my legs, use the facilities, and get coffee. I made another stop for the same purposes at a Dunkin Donuts off Route 290 in Worcester, Massachusetts, and then made my way into Connecticut, following I-395 to I-95 along the shoreline. Chris had a GPS in the cab. Although they were often wildly misleading in parts of Maine, I trusted it to get me to up-market Connecticut.
Despite the GPS, I somehow missed the exit for Guilford off 95 and had to drive to the next one while she scolded me with a huffy “Recalculating.”
On the way into town on Route One, I passed Bishop’s Orchards Farm Market, which had a giant apple on its sign. I remembered last summer when I’d driven past Wild Blueberry Land in Down East Maine while searching for a fugitive. I wondered fleetingly if all my quests would be marked by giant fruit.
I came into the center of Guilford and drove around the spacious town green, which was surrounded on three sides by churches of different denominations, along with the town hall, colonial houses, and the Guilford Savings Bank. The green was so pretty and peaceful, I had to remind myself I’d come to town to solve a murder. I’d had the whole ride to think about what I planned to do. I had the address for Enid Sparks’s apartment, but I didn’t go there right away. After all, I knew she wasn’t home.
I had the date Madeleine and Howell died, but I wanted to know more about their accident. I drove to the public library. It was a handsome brick Federalist revival building just off the green, with a new wing that looked bigger than the old building. The town of Guilford obviously cared about its library. Inside, a helpful reference librarian confirmed that issues of the local paper weren’t online, but they had microfiche. She set me up at a workstation.
I sat down at the machine, nervously scrolling back through issues, looking for an article about Madeleine and Howell’s deaths. According to the genealogy site, they’d died on New Year’s Day, so I tried the next issue of the weekly Shoreline Times dated Thursday, January 3.
I didn’t have to look hard.
The Lowes’ deaths were front-page news, accompanied by a huge black-and-white photo of a devastated home. Their house had caught fire in the predawn hours of New Year’s Day, after an evening spent entertaining friends. A neighbor spotted the flames from his bathroom window. The house had been fully involved by the time the fire department arrived.