Blood Kin (14 page)

“He had no electricity?”

Emma scoffed. “Shoot, most of us didn't have power until we were grown. Nothing wrong with old ways. Not that I don't like my television and running water, but we did without for years, like those before us. I can't see we turned out any worse than kids today.”

“Did he have any family?”

“Cousins. Nephews and nieces. Aunts and uncles. I expect Forest will hold the wake, once the coroner is done with the body. Forest's a second cousin, but he and Creed were always close. Used to do a lot of duck hunting together, but Forest said he was through with it. Didn't want to end up like the senator.”

“Senator Marshall?”

“Only senator I know that ever came off of Tawes. They didn't bury him here, though. His wife wanted him somewhere off island.” Tears began to course down Emma's reddened and sunburned cheeks. “I just can't believe Creed's gone.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“It's not your fault. Creed brought this on himself, but it's hard to lose a friend like that. Awful hard.”

Many of those who'd been at the birthday party the night before drifted into Emma's to talk about Creed's death. Emma and some of her friends brewed endless pots of coffee and brought out food left over from the celebration. After two hours of listening to villagers repeat stories about Creed and a rehash of his life, Bailey slipped outside, took the bike from the shed, and rode out into the country to get away from all the grieving.

At first she'd intended to go back to Elizabeth's house, but as she neared the lane, she kept thinking of her uncle Will and wondering if he'd heard of the tragedy. She rode back and forth on the road, looking for an entrance to his place. When she couldn't find one, she pushed the bike down Elizabeth's driveway toward the water. She still wasn't ready to give up hope of making some connection with her great-uncle, and she was prepared to risk being devoured by his dog pack to give it one last try.

The lane was noisy with birdsong and the buzz of bees, and the air smelled of honeysuckle and salt water. Her spirits lifted. She was so glad she'd gotten out of Emma's house. The two riding horses were grazing in the field where she'd seen them earlier, and they lifted their heads and whinnied a greeting as she passed. She'd have to ask Emma whom they belonged
to. She never saw anyone caring for them, and though she was no expert on horses, the animals seemed in fine shape.

She left the bike at the edge of the woods and hurried down the shady trail toward Will's house. This time, no matter how hard she listened, she didn't hear the dogs. She hoped that was a good omen.

The yard, when she reached it, seemed as quiet as the woodland path. The house stood quiet, too. No smoke drifted from the chimney, and no sounds—human or animal—came from inside. She climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the closed door.

No answer. She wondered if her uncle was inside and ignoring her, but when she followed the porch around, she saw that the dock was empty. His boat was gone; apparently she'd come out here for nothing. Reluctantly she started back down the steps, and then noticed an open sketchpad and charcoal pencil lying on the porch swing seat.

She picked up the pad and glanced through it. The first two pages were filled with line drawings of an owl. Wing, beak, talons. An owl in flight. A tiny owl ripping at a mouse. The third page contained sketches of mice, scampering up the same steps she'd just climbed, nestling in a hollow log, and one drawing of a mother mouse with four little ones nursing.

She flipped to the next page. Blank. She spent a few more minutes inspecting the owl and mouse drawings and then laid the sketchpad back on the seat as she'd found it. But as she stood to walk away, she had an idea.

Taking pad and charcoal, she sat on the step and began to sketch her great uncle's face. For more than an hour she worked at the drawing, smudging the charcoal, rubbing out lines, adding more. When she was
finished, she was pleased. It wasn't her best work, but it was the best thing she'd ever done from memory without looking at her subject.

“See what you make of that, old man,” she murmured, replacing the pad and charcoal, but leaving the page open to the portrait. If he was an artist, he must have an artist's curiosity. And if she proved to him that she possessed talent, maybe he would thaw enough to tell her something about her mother.

In any case, time was running out. Forest McCready would fix whatever had to be fixed with the inheritance, and she would be leaving Tawes, probably forever.

It was early afternoon before the police were through with their preliminary questions. Daniel had repeated his story of seeing the smoke at first light and going to investigate. He gave a written statement on his observations, detailing what he'd seen when he approached the smoldering ruins of Creed Somers's home. When he returned to Emma's at two, she was waiting for him on the porch swing. He knew by the expression on her face that there was trouble.

“What's wrong?” he asked as he opened the gate.

“You'd better go and try to talk to Matthew.” She came down the steps to meet him. “I went by the parsonage to ask if there would be a prayer vigil for Creed at the church tonight, and I could hear Grace and him shouting at each other from the street. Your brother's in a bad way, and she isn't helping.”

“Has she ever?”

“She was yelling that Will Tawes was a crazed killer.” Emma took hold of his arm and looked directly into his eyes. “I'm worried about Matthew, Daniel. I don't
think he's been taking his medication. He didn't seem himself the last few Sundays. It's not like him to be giving sermons about God's wrath and the end of the world.”

Daniel stiffened. “I'll do what I can, but you know how it's always been with the two of them. All she has to say is, ‘Jump,' and he asks, ‘How high?' ”

“He's scared, and Creed's death is bound to hit him hard. They've been friends for half a century.”

Daniel knew Emma was right about that too. Despite the way Creed had lived his life, the two had grown up together. A blow like this could send his brother into a serious depression. “Is Bailey in the house?”

“No. She took the bike and rode out this morning.” Her eyes widened. “You don't think she's in danger?”

“Not from Will, if that's what you're thinking. I'd better go and see how Matt is.”

“You do that, and if there's anything I can do, you let me know.”

When Daniel found neither Matthew nor Grace at the house, he crossed the cemetery through the rows of old gravestones and entered the church by the side entrance.

“Have you heard?” Grace asked as he closed the door behind him. “Creed's dead. Nobody listened when I said that Joe Marshall was murdered. Will got away with killing him, and now he's burned Creed alive in his house.”

“You can't accuse Will without proof.”

“Will hated him. You know he did.”

“If Will wanted Creed dead, he would have been dead long before this. Nobody knows what happened.
Creed could have been drunk out of his head and knocked over the kerosene lamp.”

“You know it was no accident,” she insisted, clutching at his shirtsleeve. “You know as well as I do that Will's to blame.”

Daniel resisted the urge to push her away and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the semi-darkness. It was a cloudy day, and the only light was that which filtered through the stained-glass windows, windows shadowed by the sheltering oaks on either side of the church. From somewhere in the front of the sanctuary he heard sobbing.

“I told Matthew that he was dangerous. That it wouldn't be over as long as Will Tawes—”

“Grace, for the love of God, would you shut up?” He brushed past his sister-in-law and walked to the front pew. Matthew, sobbing, was on his knees at the railing, his hands locked around the upright supporting posts. “First Joe. Now Creed. Who's next?” He began to weep again.

“Matt, get hold of yourself.” Daniel put his hand on his brother's shoulder. “Your parishioners need you now. They need you to be strong.”

“Elizabeth brought this trouble down on us,” Grace said as she came up behind him. “She started it all up again when she left her farm to an outsider.”

Daniel whirled on her. “You're not helping. Has he been taking his medication? How long has he been like this?”

“Oh, so it's my fault? Who's stood by him all these years? Who sees that he goes to the doctor regularly? Orders his pills? Covers for him when he forgets to take them or just decides he doesn't need them and can't
crawl out of bed in the morning?” She shook a finger in his face. “Don't you take that tone with me. You're his brother. Where were you when Matthew needed you?”

“Maybe living with you and listening to your mouth day after day makes him depressed.”

“Don't,” Matthew begged. He rose unsteadily to his feet and reached out for his wife. “Don't blame Grace. It's not her fault.”

“If it's anyone's fault, it's Will's. His and that girl of Beth's.”

Daniel glared at her. “Leave her out of this.”

“First you defend a murderer and now—”

“Either shut up or get out of here so I can help him.”

Grace clutched at her husband. “Are you going to stand there and let him talk to your wife like that? In a house of God? Where's your pride? How can you call yourself a man?”

“Enough!” Daniel had never laid a hand on a woman in his life, but it was all he could do not to pick her up bodily and toss her out of the church.

“Stop, please. I can't stand it when the two of you—”

“There, there, Matthew.” Grace wrapped a protective arm around him. “You'll make yourself sick. Come home and let me make you a pot of coffee. People may be coming to the church to pray for Creed's soul. If they discover you here like this, they might talk.”

“It's no disgrace to be ill,” Matthew said. “No one would make me leave my church.”

“No, of course not,” she murmured. “It's the shock of Creed's death. You were always too sensitive. Your brother is a good man, Daniel. I wouldn't expect you to understand how tenderhearted he is.”

“Please.” Matthew straightened his shoulders. “We're
all distraught. Grace didn't mean to speak unkindly of Bailey.”

“She never means to speak unkindly about anyone, does she?”

Matthew bristled. “I'll ask you to show respect for—”

“Just go,” Grace said. “Go and leave us.”

“Is that what you want?” Daniel studied his brother.

“Maybe it's best, until you cool down.”

“You heard him,” Grace said. “The church is no place for threats.”

“Forget it. You deserve each other.” Daniel started toward the door, then stopped. “See that he gets his medication. Or I'll come by and force it down his throat.”

An hour later, a white twenty-two-foot skiff with
Naughty Lady, Crisfield, Maryland,
painted in fluorescent red script across the stern, arrived at the Tawes dock. Immediately after the skipper cut his engines, a tall, lanky man with a blond ponytail, Oakley sunglasses, and a diamond stud earring got off the boat, paid the captain in crisp fifty-dollar bills, and pushed a Schwinn mountain bike down the dock. “You'll be back for me at three tomorrow?” The captain nodded, eased his Bradley center-console out into the current, and pulled away.

Bailey caught sight of the newcomer coasting down the street a few minutes later as she came out of Doris's Market. “Elliott? What are you doing here? And this isn't your bike, is it?”

“Loaner. And I could ask you the same thing.” He circled back, stopped the bike, and gave her a hug. “Two days at most?” He peered at her over the top of his dark wraparound sunglasses. “Overstayed your time, haven't you?”

“I told you it was going to take a little longer than I'd thought.”

“I know you did, but you said a minor problem.”

“You didn't tell me you were coming.”

“I didn't know it myself. I tried your cell this morning, got nothing, and decided to come over and see if you were okay. You didn't tell me these yokels spoke a foreign language.”

“Oh, you get used to it after a few days. I hardly notice the accent anymore. But how did you get here?” In Rehoboth Elliott blended in with the crowd, but here on the island, his lemon yellow Ralph Lauren polo and Cole Haan loafers made him overdressed. “Creed Somers runs the ferry and . . .” She trailed off, deciding to broach the subject of the fire and Creed's death later, if at all.

“What's going on in town? Somebody rob a bank? I saw two, three state policeman and somebody wearing a jumpsuit that said ‘Medical Examiner.' ”

She handed him the bag of groceries and cleaning products she'd purchased from the market. “How did you know that the B and B was down this way?” She couldn't imagine that any of the villagers would be particularly helpful.

“Didn't. Been looking for it all around this ‘picturesque town'—isn't that what you called it? I didn't see a single sign for a B and B.” He grimaced. “Not much of a welcome. Aren't you glad to see me?”

“Yes, I am.” She hugged him again. “But how did you get here?”

“Simple, my dear Watson. Drove to Crisfield. Your car still has four wheels and a battery, by the way. I parked next to it. Then I walked around the harbor until I
found somebody who was willing to bring me over for a hundred dollars.”

“Big spender,” she teased. “And is your ‘ride' waiting for you?”

“I'm all yours for twenty-four hours, babe. I had to promise the skipper a hundred and fifty to come back and get me tomorrow.”

“Two-fifty? Where'd you get that kind of spare change?”