Washashore Murders (eBook)

Chapter One

On the Monday evening when Columbus Day weekend ends, the bar crowd on Nor’easter Island considers it a tradition to gather on the beach and throw a moon at the last ferry leaving for the mainland. Never mind that it is already dark in the short days of October and no one on the boat can see them. They’re celebrating because the holiday marks the end of the tourist season on the summer resort. The streets and hotels empty out, the year-rounders regain their island for themselves, and they look ahead to a quiet winter with cash in hand from working three jobs servicing the needs of the summer tourists. Glad to have their money, glad to see them go.

Joel Berliner was one of` those islanders gathered on the beach. Everyone recalled he was there. But only a handful would admit to seeing him the next day, Tuesday, when he disappeared. Edith “Dita” Redmond did. She said she saw Joel twice. She remembered because it was a special day in her household.

Early that morning, instead of sitting down for a leisurely breakfast, she and her husband Sean stood across from each other in their small kitchen. Edith, whose childhood nickname Dita had long replaced her given name, leaned against the speckled counter, her pink chenille bathrobe loosely tied at the waist. Sean, already dressed, was propped against the butcher-block table. Each held a mug of steaming coffee. Sean was trying to gulp his like a beer, rushing because he didn’t want to miss the boat to the mainland, although they had plenty of time to get to Nor’easter Island’s ferry harbor. It was a straight run to town and there was no traffic. While the island’s summer population could swell up to 20,000 tourists a day, causing traffic jams on the narrow roads, once cool weather hit the island there might be more over-wintering birds than people. Dita and Sean were among a meager thousand or so year-round residents of Nor’easter Island, more of a summer resort than a place to pursue a life and a career.

Sean plunked his cup down in the sink and smiled at her. “Done,” he said.

“How do you do that?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

“Practice,” he said, opening the kitchen slider. “Let’s go. The boat won’t wait.”

She followed him out, taking her coffee with her. Their goofy golden retriever, Tuffy, tagged along to the truck, edging himself in front of Dita as she opened the driver’s side door. She motioned him in and he leapt up, then squeezed through the seats to the back bench.

It looked to be a good day for a crossing to the mainland, twelve miles away, but on Nor’easter Island that could change in a matter of a few hours. Out to the west, beyond Sailors Pond, which was across the street from their house, an angry black band cut across the sky with dark cloud cover behind it, marking the edge of a storm that might right now be raising Cain over Long Island, some twenty miles off to the west. It could be a mere thunder burst that would peter out before reaching them and not a gale; and, Dita hoped, not a Nor’easter, the storms for which the island was named. Those rose out of the North Atlantic, forming cyclonic rotations like tropical hurricanes, angry sea monsters that could hover over the island for days, pounding rain and punishing waves that eroded the beaches as though the storm was gobbling them up. This morning the weather directly overhead looked to be good, at least for now just a few light clouds.

“I hope the weather holds,” Dita said, thinking Sean’s ride home might not be so calm if a gale moved in.

He shrugged. “As long as the ferry runs, I’ll be on it,” he said. “Doesn’t bother me.”

She thought he seemed nervous, but not about the weather. He had scheduled appointments with loan officers at the two banks close to the mainland harbor. He planned to apply for financial backing to start a business on the island, a fitness center. Without a loan, he wouldn’t be able do it. Dita had listened to his presentation before they went to bed last night. She thought it sounded good. He seemed ready, and today, he looked ready. He wore real slacks, and a shirt with a collar, clothes that usually hung in the closet ready for weddings and funerals, instead of the everyday jeans, tees and sweats that bespoke island life. Dita had actually run an iron over them last night. She kept one for these rare occasions, and used the window seat in the front room as an ironing board. The couple had debated the value of a tie, but landed on the side of, too much. Who among the mainland bourgeoisie, especially the banking world, would really believe an islander with a tie? They viewed the year-rounders from the summer resort like feral creatures.

Dita looked Sean over one more time. “You look nice,” she said.

He smiled. “As do you. I love you best in your chenille robe. All you need are rollers in your hair.” He leaned over and kissed her, and reached out to grab a piece of her.

“Stop. I have to drive. And you rushed me so I didn’t have time to dress.”

They headed down Founders Road toward town and the harbor, a five-minute ride today. She pulled into the parking lot and he gave her one more kiss before he opened the door and stepped out. She rolled her window down.

‘Good luck,” she called.

He turned toward her, and she saw faint worry lines crease his forehead.

He called back to her. “Yeah, let’s hope. Don’t forget to meet me at the five and please, get the recycling to the dump.”

The five would be the boat that left the mainland at five and arrived back on Nor’easter Island at six.

She watched him stride through the parking lot. His height made him easy to spot as he joined the small knot of other islanders toward the bottom of the hill, all making their way toward the dock, forming a line at the ticket office, then climbing the gangplank and disappearing onto the boat. She hoped this day went well for him over there. If not, if he couldn’t get a loan, they might have to leave the island. They weren’t earning enough money to pay their bills. In the summer, she waitressed in addition to working part time as a reporter for the newspaper, The Island Gale, but neither of those jobs brought in enough money to pay their mortgage. Sean did small carpentry jobs and filled in on construction crews; but again, that wasn’t a real living. They would have to go to the mainland if their business plan to start a fitness center did not get financing. She could understand why Sean was worried. Dita was also, but had promised herself she would remain optimistic.

She restarted the truck and drove through town, past all the white, wooden Victorian buildings, then turned toward home. She loved the stretch of road between the business district and their house. Sand dunes lined the ocean side for over a mile. In spring, they were covered with rambling pink rosa rugosa in flower. On fall mornings like today, the sun, hanging low in the sky, lit the tips of the beach grasses to gold.

She pulled into the parking lot just past the Beach Dune Restaurant, where the surfers parked their vans. The dunes were smaller there, and she could see the ocean. It was calm, which explained the fact there was only one other car in the lot. She parked facing the water, enjoying the view, and waited, checking her email on her phone while she sat there. It was a delight not to need to rush off somewhere, to open the windows and breathe in the salty sea air. Finally she heard the ferry’s horn sound twice and she knew it was leaving the harbor. She watched until it passed by, making its way along the island to open seas, and then she started on her way home again.

When she got there, Tuffy jumped out and disappeared into the brambles that surrounded their yard. Dita showered and dressed before she went back to the truck. As she left the house, she let Tuffy, who was now sprawled out on the deck waiting for her, inside for his morning nap. She and Sean had already loaded the vehicle’s bed with the trash the previous evening. Usually recycling was his job, but the dump, as everyone called the recycling center, was open two half-days a week, and this was one of them. She drove toward it, two miles up Founders, but pulled into her friend Rachel Berliner’s driveway to visit her first.

Rachel’s cottage leaned as though it were hovering over an oceanside cliff debating whether or not to take the plunge. Fifty years of storms with gale force winds had shifted the structure. Fifty years of sea air, salty and damp, had eaten into the siding, fading the cedar shingles from brown to the soft gray that tourists loved. Dita sometimes wondered if there were extra lines chiseled into islanders’ faces, extra sprigs of gray hair on their heads. Maybe, islanders aged like their houses. If so, she thought, she’d better move off before it was too late. She liked her smooth skin and honey blond hair the way it was.

Nor’easter Island’s harsh North Atlantic climate was a far cry from the frequently touted warmer climates of other tourist resorts like Key West, Oahu and Myrtle Beach. Still, there were enough stellar summer days to bring boatloads of tourists; and this year, city people awash in money looking for big second homes. Houses were being grabbed up as though there was a fire sale at New York’s diamond exchange. Even Rachel’s falling-into-neglect cottage caught their attention. Passers-by looking for an inexpensive summer place would slow down wondering if the price would be “the one” they could afford. Those looking for a Hampton’s-style estate would wonder if there was enough land to demolish the cottage and build a mansion.

But...