Town in a Maple Madness Page 11

  “Jean,” she said as she stepped into the room, “I came as quickly as I could. I was so sorry to hear about your loss. You have my deepest condolences.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Jean Rilke in a low, thick voice, as if her throat needed to be cleared. “Now, please, sit down. As I said on the phone, we need to talk.”

  NINETEEN

  “Um . . . of course, Jean.”

  It was admittedly a lame response but it was the best Candy could come up with at the moment. She spoke the words softly, in a whispery tone, as if she were in a library, for in some ways that was how it felt in here. Hushed, still, closed in. This whole thing was odd and a little unsettling. She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here. But, she thought, she’d see it through, find out what Jean wanted, and do what she could to comfort the other woman.

  She paused in the archway as she searched for an appropriate place to sit. As in the rest of the house, the shades were pulled down here, too, plunging the room into shadows. But her eyes had started to adjust to the gloominess. She could see well enough, though the colors were muted and some of the shapes indistinct.

  Jean had ensconced herself in a dark easy chair tucked into the opposite corner. A series of shelves, bookcases, and cabinets lined the wall on the right. In the center of the room was a coffee table of dark wood, also covered with magazines and books. Along the left wall, under a shaded window, sat a brown corduroy sofa with large throw pillows at either end. That’s where Candy headed.

  She took a few steps into the room, trying to tread as quietly as possible, so as not to disrupt the somber atmosphere, but still a few floorboards creaked under her heels. She had to hold herself back from verbally apologizing.

  Velvet, seated at her mistress’s feet, watched their visitor the entire time with curious brown eyes. Then, as Candy reached the couch and turned to sit, the dog vigorously scratched herself behind the ears with her hind leg. Her collar chain and tags rattled noisily, breaking the silence. At the same time, the kettle whistled impatiently in the kitchen.

  With a few soft-spoken words, Jean rose from her chair, passed in front of Candy, and disappeared around the archway. Velvet hopped up and followed closely on Jean’s heels. Candy found herself alone in the dimly lit room.

  “Well,” she said to herself again as she settled uneasily onto the edge of the sofa. For a moment she was tempted to follow Jean into the kitchen, but she decided to stay put. Better to let the other woman proceed at her own pace. She’d talk when she was ready.

  As Candy waited, her gaze wandered around the room, centering on the wall of shelves, bookcases, and cabinets on the other side of the room. At first glance she couldn’t make out much on those shelves. She desperately wanted to open a window and let in some light. That might help Jean’s mood, she thought, and would make it easier to see in here.

  On an impulse she rose, stepped around the coffee table, and crossed to the shelves. She stopped in front of them, her eyes sweeping over the book spines, interspersed with vases and candles and keepsakes, before settling on several framed photographs arranged on one of the cabinet tops to her right.

  Not surprisingly, Mick Rilke was well represented in the photos. There was one of him with all his fishing gear at some secluded spot along the river, in front of what looked like a boathouse. Another showed him in front of his gray landscaping truck. Mick sported a huge, toothy grin in the photo, which looked a decade or so old. He’d had more hair back then, and his paunch wasn’t quite so pronounced.

  Her gaze shifted. Two other photos drew her attention. One was recent, while the other looked much older. The first showed Mick in front of the new community center. There was still quite a bit of snow on the ground, so it must have been taken in late January or early February, when a trio of storms had blown through the area, one right after the other. It looked like it had been cold that day. Hands were tucked in pockets and cloud breaths emerged from mouths. Mick was standing with a group of bundled-up people, including Mason Flint, Carol McKaskie, Elvira Tremble, Cotton Colby, and Tillie Shaw. Candy’s father was absent, but Finn Woodbury represented the posse. She saw a few other familiar faces, including Ginny Milbright’s, but no Hutch. Ray Hutchins, the local handyman, also stood in the background.

  Good company, she thought. Mick certainly ran in the right circles.

  The other photo, the older one, took her a few moments to decipher. It showed a group of perhaps forty to fifty students, all in caps and gowns, standing on a set of risers set against a brick wall, maybe in a cafeteria or gymnasium. A sign in front of the group identified it as the CLASS OF 1981, CAPE WILLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL. This was the entire class, she knew. The high school claimed fewer than three hundred students total, in four grades. She scanned the faces, figuring the photo must be here for a reason. Some of the students looked vaguely familiar, but most didn’t. And then she spotted him. He was young, and his face was still changing, but she noticed the distinctive features. It was a teenage Mick Rilke, standing toward the end of the top riser. He’d been husky even then, though his face was more boyish, his hair an uncontrolled mop. Just in front of him, on a lower riser, was a pleasant-looking young woman. She had a round face and kept her dark hair short even then. It was Jean, Candy realized. She stood next to another young man, this one with a beard. She knew right away who it was. He’d been a big lad even then, though his features had matured over the years, but the same basic structure was there. It wasn’t hard to identify him as Hutch Milbright.

  So they’d all been in the same graduating class, Candy thought. Something she hadn’t known. Interesting.

  She moved on, continuing to scan the shelves, and spotted a photo of Jean and Velvet toward the far end. Other than the high school graduation photo, this was the only one with Jean in it. For some reason, the lady of the house wasn’t well represented in this photo gallery. Looking back across the bookshelf, Candy confirmed that Jean wasn’t in any of the photos. No wedding photo even. No images of her and Mick dating, or hanging out as a younger couple. Most of them were of Mick.

  That’s odd, Candy thought. Jean must be camera shy.

  She heard footsteps then, approaching along the hall, and returned to her seat on the sofa just as Jean and Velvet came around the corner of the archway.

  Without a word, Jean set a tray on the coffee table and poured tea for both of them, before returning to the easy chair with a teacup in her hand.

  “Now,” she said in a flat tone, as Velvet settled at her feet, “on to business.”

  TWENTY

  “First of all,” Jean said as her eyes took on a defensive glint and her whole demeanor hardened to New Hampshire granite, “and before you ask, no, I didn’t kill my husband. Just let me make that clear right from the start, okay?”

  She said these last few words emphatically, in sharp contrast to her earlier somber tone. “It’s what I told the police, and it’s what I’ll tell you. I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know how he wound up in that river, wrapped in a net like that. I don’t know where he was when . . . well, you know, where he spent his last minutes on earth.”

  She paused as her carefully maintained manner threatened to crumble, and averted her eyes as she fought to keep her emotions in check. Her mouth quivered a little, but a few calming breaths seemed to settle her. Candy caught a glimpse into the woman’s anguish and hesitated to speak, afraid she’d make it worse. Instead, she waited patiently as Jean gathered herself, which she soon did.

  “We were happy early on, the two of us,” she finally continued, her gaze distant, her voice turning wistful. “We were high school sweethearts, you know. And there was some competition for him, back in those days, I don’t mind saying. But I was the lucky one who managed to snag him. We got married a few years after graduation, and we’ve had some good years together, but like many couples who’ve been together as long as we have, we’d grown apart. He had his in
terests; I had mine. I like keeping to myself, and he liked to get out and talk to other people. He was quite a talker, as you’re probably aware. And he knew lots of folks. Most of the time, when he wasn’t here at the house, I had no idea where he was at. Of course, on weekdays he stopped in at the diner for lunch, and he usually swung by Rusty’s tavern after work, to hang out with the guys. The rest of the time he was on the road somewhere, at other people’s houses or tending to commercial properties. He moved around a lot. It was hard to keep track of him. It was his job, you know. It took him all over the cape. He could have been anywhere, really, when it happened. That’s what I told the police.”

  She paused, and gulped, and focused her gaze back on Candy. Her voice lowered and turned hoarse again as she continued.

  “At first, when the police came out here to talk about Mick, I thought it was just going to be routine stuff. I thought they’d just ask me if I knew what had happened to him. Maybe comfort a grieving widow a little. But that wasn’t why they were here. Instead, they asked me where I’d been this whole time. Well, I don’t mind telling you, that question surprised me. I knew right away what they were implying. And I told them point-blank they were on the wrong track. I did indeed.”

  She emphasized the statement with a firm nod of her head. There was silence in the room then, and Jean seemed to have run out of things to say for the moment, so she looked expectantly at Candy, who cleared her throat before she spoke.

  “Thank you for telling me all that, Jean,” Candy began. “I know this must be very hard for you. It’s especially troubling that the police think you were somehow involved. But if I may ask, what was their response when you told them you didn’t do it?”

  Jean made a distasteful face. She could be quite expressive, communicating a lot without saying a word. “They didn’t believe me, of course. That seemed fairly evident. I could see it in their eyes. I’m pretty good at reading these things. Besides, I know what they say. The spouse is always the primary suspect in cases like this.”

  “I’m sure they’re not thinking that in this case,” Candy said.

  “I beg to differ,” Jean said sternly.

  “But why would they think you had anything to do with Mick’s death?”

  “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe it’s just procedure.”

  “Maybe. But they seemed pretty interested in my whereabouts lately.”

  “Did they give you any idea of why they might suspect you? What did they say, specifically?”

  Jean shifted in her seat, and Velvet moved restlessly as well. “They asked me where I’ve been lately. I told them I was right here the whole time.”

  “If I may clarify, what time frame are they looking at? When do they think . . . well? . . .”

  “Since about six P.M. last night,” Jean answered, giving no indication that the question bothered her. “They said they’ve established the time of death around early evening, last night. Seven or eight, something like that. I told them I was here at the house all day yesterday, all last night, and all day today. But they weren’t interested in taking me at my word. They wanted corroboration.”

  Candy nodded. “Whether anyone saw you here during that time. Whether someone stopped by the house, or you talked to one of the neighbors.”

  “Or if I sent any e-mails, made any calls on the landline or cell phone—to prove I was here, I suppose. Again, I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. I spoke to my brother in Concord late yesterday afternoon around five. That’s the Concord in New Hampshire, by the way, not the one in Massachusetts. People tend to get the two mixed up. We talked for maybe twenty minutes. Other than that, I haven’t made any calls. I was online this morning but didn’t send or receive anything. I’m not on any of that social media stuff. Just not my cup of tea. I haven’t had much contact with other people, I’ll admit. But I was here, the whole time, by myself. Well, except for Velvet, of course. She can back me up, can’t you, girl?” Jean reached down to scratch the dog’s neck, and Velvet leaned into her hand gratefully.

  Candy considered all that, and decided it was time to get to the heart of the matter. “Again, I appreciate your telling me all this, but I’m not quite sure what you’d like me to do. Why, if I may ask, did you invite me over here today?”

  The other woman’s gaze turned flinty again, drilling into her guest. “It’s simple. I want you to find the real murderer, of course. I want you to help me clear my name, so the police—and all the other people in this town—don’t think I did something terrible to my husband. I know how the gossip mill in this town gets all ginned up. Some of those ladies, like the ones in the Heritage Protection League, can get pretty judgmental real fast. I know I’m already a topic of conversation around town. They’re always spreading rumors about villagers—including Mick.”

  “Mick? About what, if I may ask?” Candy had some idea of what Jean was referring to, but she didn’t run much in the local gossip circles these days, and since she’d left her job at the paper a couple of years ago, she was out of the loop on a lot of the hottest information floating around town.

  “Oh, you know, typical stuff,” Jean said, almost casually, as if it were old news. “He’s running a shady deal. He’s working under the table. He’s fooling around with this person or that. He steals other people’s tools. He can’t be trusted. It’s all complete rubbish, of course.”

  “Of course,” Candy said. She’d heard a little of that herself over the years, but not all of it. Still, she wasn’t completely surprised by Jean’s revelations. She knew how small towns were, and Mick certainly had been a controversial figure. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Jean shook her head. “That’s just it. I haven’t really seen him much over the past few days. He’s here in the mornings, of course, but even then he dashes out sometimes before I’m up. I saw him yesterday morning, briefly. I think he was back here in the afternoon for a while but he was out in his workshop the entire time. He didn’t come into the house. I never noticed what time he left, but his truck was gone by four or so. Anyway, as best I can remember, it’s been about a day and a half since I’ve actually talked to him. Thirty hours or more, is my best estimate. That’s what I told the police.”

  “When he left yesterday morning, did he say where he was going, or what he was doing? Did he mention any names?”

  “The police asked me the same thing. The answer is no. I didn’t keep tabs on his schedule, and he didn’t mention it much, unless he was seeing someone we both knew.”

  “What truck was he driving when he left here yesterday?” Candy asked. “Was it the red one, with the snowplow in front?”

  “His truck?” Jean seemed a little surprised by the question but answered nonetheless. “Sure, that’s the one he’s driving right now. The plow truck.”

  “Do you know if he’s been over to Sugar Hill Farm?”

  “The Milbrights’ place?” Jean fell silent, uncertain of this line of questioning. So Candy tried a different approach.

  “Let me ask you this: Did Mick have any enemies who might have wanted to do him harm?”

  Jean’s facial expression showed her tiredness. Candy knew she’d have to wrap this up soon. The widow had been through a lot today.

  “He ran a business,” Jean answered matter-of-factly. “There were always some hard feelings here and there with a customer or two. But nobody stands out—no one who could do something like this.”

  “What about the project over at the community center? He was going to run their sugaring demonstration, I’ve heard.”

  “He’s dabbled in that from time to time, though we don’t have a sugar shack of our own,” Jean admitted. “Some years he’d just set up a temporary boiling operation out by the garage, with a big iron pot over a fire pit. But we didn’t bottle enough syrup to make any money off it. It was just for personal use, and for
friends. He was always doing something or other like that.”

  Candy pressed on with a few more questions. “Do you know where he was getting the sap for the demonstrations this weekend?”

  “The sap?” A look of irritation flashed through Jean’s eyes. “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Candy admitted, “but it could be important. What about Mick’s work schedule? Did he keep any sort of calendar of his daily activities? Anything that might show his whereabouts over the past few days?”

  “The police asked me that too,” Jean said. “He keeps most of that information on his phone, though some of it is on his work computer too, out in the workshop. I think the police took that and they’re looking at it.”

  “Do you know if they’ve found his phone? Forgive me for asking this, but was it on his body?”

  Jean shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what they said about it. I was too upset by their line of questioning and, honestly, a lot of what they said just didn’t register.”

  “I don’t suppose he left it around here somewhere? It could provide some clues as to who did this to him.”

  Jean’s response was subdued. “I haven’t seen it. Far as I know, he had it with him when he left.”

  Candy paused to think. There were more questions swirling around her mind, but she didn’t want to bombard Jean too much at the moment. Her gaze turned toward the window, which faced the side yard and the barn and outbuildings. Finally, she spoke again. “You said Mick had a workshop. I assume it’s one of those buildings out there.”

  Jean nodded as her gaze turned toward the window as well. “The low building, next to the barn. He’s got an office in there too, and a woodstove, and a fridge and TV. He can hole up in there for a while. He slept out there sometimes, in his workshop, when he was out late—so he didn’t disturb me, he used to say. Like I said, we lived our own lives.”