“He’s a troubled man, Diana. His life was literally ripped apart five years ago.” Ben drew her over to a window, where they could look out on a peaceful vista of green lawn and rose-covered arbors. “The building collapse affected his mind, making him moody and unpredictable, quick to lose his temper, and easily convinced that anyone from the press is out to get him. He’s been better lately. His interest in Serena Dunbar’s project, and in Serena, has been good for him.”
“What if Graham Somener wanted you here because he thought that, as an old friend, you could be persuaded to sign a death certificate without asking too many questions?”
“What are you saying?”
“What if the original plan was for Ennis to die of poison? The fact that he was the target would have been disguised by the fact that two other men also fell ill. Someone killed Frank Ennis, Ben, and that may not have been the first attempt on his life. Your friend Graham—”
“Enough!” Ben sucked in a deep breath and held it. When he was certain he wouldn’t snap at her, that his voice would be calm, he resumed speaking. “I don’t like this situation any better than you do, Diana, but I know Graham Somener. He’s not a cold-blooded killer.”
“But—”
He cut her off with a slashing motion. “No. No discussion. The subject is closed. Let the sheriff handle this.”
“But—”
“No.”
Exasperated, she stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Diana.”
“Nor I, you.”
“Good. Then we’d best change the subject. Tell me what has been going on at home while I’ve been stuck here. Tell me—” He broke off with a self-deprecating smile. “I can’t believe I’m asking this! Tell me about your mother.”
* * * *
Diana, Ben, Miss Dunbar, and Mr. Carstairs joined Graham Somener for a late supper. As soon as the meal was on the table and Mrs. Monroe had left the dining room, Somener addressed Ben. “I need your help, my friend.”
“I’m not going to sign a death certificate that says Ennis died of natural causes.”
“I didn’t intend to ask you to.”
Diana, seated opposite her host, had an excellent view of his face in the candlelight, but she couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. The hand holding his wine glass clenched, then relaxed.
Ben glanced up from his plate to give the other man a stare that would have turned a less stalwart fellow to jelly. “I am not involved in the investigation, Graham. Nor do I wish to be.”
“Perhaps not, but will you or won’t you, you can expect to be badgered by the press. They’re vultures, Ben. Once word of this leaks out—and I assure you that it will—the Boston papers will come looking for a story. If they can’t find a connection to that business five years ago, they’ll invent one. Am I not correct, Mrs. Spaulding?”
Diana wished she could deny it, but he spoke nothing less than the truth. “Even the most reputable newspapers will skewer you if they can. People dearly love to read about the trials and tribulations of their betters. The elite have so much more to lose when they fall from grace.”
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Spaulding,” Paul Carstairs interrupted, “but how do you know so much about newspapers?”
“I work for the
Independent Intelligencer
,” Diana admitted.
“One of the worst examples of its kind. A scandal-mongering rag if there ever was one.” Somener looked as if a thundercloud had settled in over his head.
“That’s enough, Graham,” Ben said. “We take your point. Neither Diana nor I will talk to reporters.”
Diana kept her head down as she ate but she couldn’t resist peeping out from beneath her lashes. Somener bit viciously into a piece of meat and chewed with such force that Diana feared he’d do damage to his teeth. She shifted her gaze to Serena Dunbar. Everything about the woman belied her first name. She was so tense that Diana could swear she saw the air around her vibrate. The other archaeologist, Paul Carstairs, was less affected by the undercurrents in the room, but he clearly wished he were somewhere else. A faint flush of color showed beneath skin the color of whey as he toyed with his food.
Diana continued to eat, but not with her usual hearty appetite. She scarcely tasted the well-prepared roast of beef that Mrs. Monroe had set before them. If Ben was right and Graham Somener was innocent of any crime, then he deserved to know what else scandal-seeking reporters might hear about him.
“There’s something I need to tell you before the sheriff gets here, Mr. Somener. Someone has hired a private detective to investigate you. The fellow claims you are using Keep Island as a base for illegal operations of some sort.” In terse sentences she recounted the details of Justus Palmer’s visit to Ben’s house in Bangor.
Somener swore and took a long swallow from his wine glass. The two bright spots of color highlighting his cheekbones suggested barely leashed rage. “There’s no basis in truth for such a rumor, but a story like that, especially at this time, is a confounded nuisance.” He glared at Diana, as if he blamed her for Palmer’s suspicions.
“It will do you no good to kill the messenger.” Diana did not believe she was in any physical danger, but Graham Somener’s temper was simmering again, threatening to boil over. Serena Dunbar had twisted her napkin into a tight ball and held it crushed in a white-knuckled grip—a powder keg ready to explode. As Diana watched, she flung it away with an anguished cry and reached for the wine decanter to refill her empty glass.
“You should be able to avoid reporters’ questions, and Justus Palmer, too,” Ben said to Graham Somener, “but we’ll all have to talk to the sheriff. What do you plan to tell him?”
“As little as possible.” With the caution of a man afraid he might break something, Somener lifted his wineglass and took a single sip before gently placing it back on the table, then delicately ate a small bite of the beef. Narrow-eyed, he glanced at Ben.
“I’d advise you to tell the truth,” Ben said. “All of it.”
“The truth is that Frank Ennis is dead.” Surliness had replaced Somener’s anger. “If his equipment was tampered with, and I’m not convinced it was, then I have no idea who did it or when. There’s nothing else I can tell the authorities.”
“Miss Dunbar?” Unprepared for Ben’s attention to shift to her, she spilled her wine. “You hired Frank Ennis. You knew him before he came here. Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”
“Of course not!” She collected herself almost at once, although she ignored the stain spreading across the tablecloth. “He was a capable archaeologist. He’d worked on a number of excavations. There is no reason I can think of for anyone to wish him ill.”
“Was he the only one who would have used that diving suit?”
She answered him with a reluctant nod.
“That’s right.” Paul Carstairs’s voice was low but easily audible. “It’s too big for either of us.”
“What about that other boat?” Graham Somener interrupted. “The dory. Who were those men and what did the one with the binoculars see?”
“Nothing!” Miss Dunbar’s voice was sharp. “They saw nothing. Frank died underwater, out of sight.” Righting her empty glass, she refilled it and gulped down half the contents.
“What if that private detective was one of the men in the boat?” Somener had caught hold of a new idea and clung to it with the tenacity of a terrier.
Diana closed her eyes, trying to call up an image of what she had seen, but the dory had been too far away. “I didn’t recognize anyone, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“I don’t like this,” Somener muttered. “I don’t like it at all. I want to know who hired that detective. Can you find out for me?”
“I can try,” Ben said.
Miss Dunbar abruptly rose to her feet. Taking her wine glass with her, she bolted from the room.
“Serena!” Somener started to follow her.
Diana was faster. “I’ll make certain she’s all right,” she promised, sprinting after the other woman.
Behind her she heard Ben speak in his most soothing tone of voice. “It has been a stressful day, Graham. Most likely she needs a little time alone.”
More
likely, Diana thought, she has a guilty conscience.
Close on the heels of her quarry, Diana sped up the stairs. Miss Dunbar ran straight into her bedroom and attempted to slam the door in her pursuer’s face. Diana caught it with her shoulder, which hurt quite a lot. Wincing, she pushed harder, preventing Miss Dunbar from closing and locking the portal. The aggressive action seemed to catch the other woman off guard. That was fortunate, since she was not only more physically fit than Diana, but two inches taller and a number of pounds heavier.
Surprised but pleased by her success at getting into Miss Dunbar’s room, Diana ignored the archaeologist’s repeated demands that she leave. Instead, she settled herself in a comfortable chair upholstered in dark green plush.
Glaring at Diana all the while, Miss Dunbar defiantly drained her wine glass. Diana rearranged the skirt of her traveling suit. Mrs. Monroe had brushed and freshened it and, at least by gaslight, the salt water stains no longer showed.
Miss Dunbar stalked to the window. Pushing aside the sheer draperies, she stared at the night sky. She had a spectacular view, Diana observed. The stars seemed much closer here than they did in Bangor. In New York City, where the buildings crowded close together and arc lights illuminated the nearest open space at Union Square Park, it was rare she saw them at all.
Reminding herself that she had not followed Miss Dunbar to study the constellations, she addressed the other woman. “What is it that upsets you—one lover’s death or the possibility that the other may have killed him?”
Diana’s blunt question was intended to surprise the other woman into an honest answer. The result was not quite what she expected. The empty glass Miss Dunbar still held shattered in her hand. Shards fell to the exquisitely patterned carpet along with a drop of blood.
Diana was on her feet in an instant, catching hold of Miss Dunbar’s arm to prevent her from putting her cut finger directly in her mouth. “Stop that. It needs proper disinfecting and you can’t be sure all the glass is out.”
Miss Dunbar scowled. “There’s brandy in lower drawer of the bedside table.”
Diana led her first to the washstand. Mrs. Monroe had filled the pitcher in preparation for the next morning’s ablutions. Diana poured water into the basin and instructed Miss Dunbar to soak her hand while she located the brandy bottle. She removed the glass stopple and poured a liberal amount of the clear red-brown liquid over the slashed finger. It was only a small cut, but deep.
“Wasteful,” Miss Dunbar muttered. “That was imported. And aged. It came to me from Min Somener, and she’s been gone for a decade.”
Diana ignored the grumbling and tended to the wound. The bottle was still half full.
Miss Dunbar murmured a grudging thank you once her hand had been neatly bandaged.
“You’re welcome. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Yes, you did. I wonder why?”
“You were exceedingly nervous throughout dinner. You behaved ... oddly after Mr. Ennis died. So did Mr. Somener. What is it you are afraid the sheriff will discover?”
“He will find nothing because there is nothing for him to find. No one had any reason to kill Frank, and there is no reason to think that anything Graham has done is in the least suspicious. He is a man who values his privacy, that is all. And I am justifiably concerned about the security of my excavation.”
“Yes. Your excavation,” Diana murmured. “Is it not curious that your expedition should be to this place, where I am told you spent considerable time during your childhood. What makes you think there was a settlement here on Keep Island?”
“Research.” The reply was quick and curt.
“What sort of research?”
“The study of documents. Old documents.”
Diana had the feeling Miss Dunbar was being deliberately vague, and that she was hiding something. Miss Dunbar’s mother, Diana recalled, had been friends with Graham’s aunt, but that did not mean Serena Dunbar herself was either honest or trustworthy. And Graham Somener was a very wealthy man.
Early settlers before Columbus? A shipwreck? Now that Diana thought about it, such notions seemed preposterous.
They sounded like fodder for a confidence game.
Did Miss Dunbar intend to salt her excavation with artifacts from somewhere else, one genuine but most clever forgeries? Diana had heard of such things. The promise of treasure would lure investors in, at which point she could make off with their money.
One thought led to another. What if Serena Dunbar was not an archaeologist at all? She might well have created that role for herself in order to gain access to Keep Island, Graham Somener, and the Somener fortune. The old family connection would have been enough to give her access to the first two. Once Somener was properly smitten, he wouldn’t trouble to ask intrusive questions.
“Where did you study archaeology?” Diana asked.
Miss Dunbar did not answer at once. She had just taken a healthy swallow of brandy directly from the decanter. An odd expression on her face, she wandered to the bed and crawled up onto the foot.
“Miss Dunbar?”
“Harvard. Under dear Dr. Putnam. Dr. Frederick Ward Putnam. He thought I was brilliant before ....” She sighed and took another swig.
“Before what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’m tired.”
She was also inebriated, or pretending to be. If the latter, it was a ploy to allow her to evade Diana’s questions. Highly suspicious behavior!
Over the last few months, Diana had gained considerable experience dealing with confidence women. It was not such an outrageous possibility that Serena could be one of their number. Diana could readily believe that Serena Dunbar had come to Keep Island intending to perpetrate a fraud.
“Plans ruined.” The words were muffled. Miss Dunbar, lying on her stomach, had pulled a pillow over her head.
“What plans?” Diana stalked to Miss Dunbar’s side to lift the edge of the pillow.
The other woman was not a pretty sight. Eyes glassy, mouth open far enough to drool, she clutched the brandy bottle to her bosom. Diana recoiled as the fumes reached her nose.