Jason grinned. “Then let me show you to your room.”

  If it was period charm Grace was hoping for, the room filled every expectation: an ornate fireplace with a white crown molded into the panel beneath the mantle; a four-poster featherbed, thick and soft enough to disappear into; Wedgwood blue, flower-patterned wallpaper broken only by a cherrywood wardrobe that stretched to the ceiling; an antique writing desk in matching wood. The bedside table held a porcelain pitcher and wash basin, and half of the maple floor was hidden by a red, geometrically patterned Persian carpet I recognized from my Middle East days as a Hamadan.

  “Oh,” Grace murmured as the proprietor left. “This is perfect! We can just stay in here for the week.”

  “I think we’ll get lost in that bed,” I grumbled. “It looks like sleeping on whipped cream.”

  “Ooo. Whipped cream!” she teased. “Even more perfect. But let’s have a look around town before we give it a try. We may not feel much like coming up for air once we get in there.”

  We caught Jason laying out cups and cookies—what he called biscuits—for those who wanted afternoon tea. I asked for directions to the central police station.

  “It’s up in the center of town on Kirkwood Drive,” he said hesitantly. “No problems already, I hope?”

  “No. Things couldn’t be better here. We’re both police officers and we’re sharing our honeymoon with an effort to retrace the steps of a man who suffered a fatal heart attack in the Chicago airport on his way back from here. We’re looking for some help with a cryptic note he left.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Jason said, not hiding his curiosity, “but my family’s been on the island for four generations. I know the place pretty well. Anything I can help with?”

  I cast Grace a questioning glance, wondering how much we should share with the first person we’d spoken to in the city. She shrugged.

  “We don’t have any idea what it means, Tate,” she said. “What’s the harm?”

  I pulled Emmett’s notebook from my pocket and opened it on the table beside the teacups.

  “The note appears to mention someone named Robert Johnson and what looked like Green Tomato or Green Toronto. Something like that,” I said, running a finger beneath the scribble.

  “We’ve checked out every connection we can think of between our victim and Toronto and came up empty,” Grace added. “So we thought we’d ask the police here what they might see in the note.”

  “Could this word you’ve been reading as Green be Queens?” Jason asked.

  I leaned over the pad as if being closer might make it more legible. “I guess it could be Queens. Why?”

  “Well, if you go across the Island to visit Green Gables, you’ll be going into Queens County,” he said. “And there’s a little village up there called Toronto.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Grace murmured.

  “Completely.”

  “And how far is that from here?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing’s far. Twenty. Maybe twenty-five miles.”

  “I think we should skip the police,” Grace suggested, turning to me. “They may complicate things for us.”

  “That would be my suggestion—at least to begin with,” Jason agreed. “You’re from a small place. You know how word can get around. And two strangers in town asking questions can get people talking.”

  “Should we try to reach the Robert Johnson doctor I found here?” Grace wondered aloud.

  My own intuition said no. “First, let’s check this Toronto out tomorrow and see what we find. For this afternoon, maybe Jason here can recommend a good place for dinner, and we can take a walk around the city. If tomorrow turns out the way I think it might, today may be all the honeymoon we get.”

  26

  When the fickle moodiness of an Ozark Spring prompts the dogwoods, redbud, and hackberry to team up for an early bloom, there isn’t much that can match a Missouri hillside splashed with the pink, red, and white of nature’s brush. But there always seems to be some bubba who wants to decorate his own half acre with a crumbling mobile home, four rusted-out pickup shells, salvaged sheets of corrugated tin that he swears he’ll use someday to shore up a shed that’s collapsing behind the trailer, and the remains of a refrigerator that quit on him fifteen years ago. Beauty, I realize, is in the eye of the beholder. But for me, there’s nothing attractive about disrepair and neglect, and every spring it leaves a jagged scar across much of the beauty of my part of the world.

  Back during another lifetime before Grace, I spent an idyllic month traveling about England with a woman I thought would be Mrs. Tate, a fiancé I lost to a terrorist bombing at a Baghdad hotel when we both worked as interpreters. It was during those weeks in the British Cotswolds that I came to appreciate a place where every tree, stone wall, flowerbed, and cottage appeared to have been placed there with great care and purpose by the hand of God. Prince Edward Island proved to be a twentieth century version of that landscape. Even the small industrial area on the outskirts of Charlottetown had a tidiness that showed constant attention. Once beyond the city, lawns and gardens were groomed, fences and barns freshly painted, and the shoulders of what were invariably two-lane roads trimmed as if they had been mowed that morning.

  Twenty miles northeast of the city at an intersection lined by short-needle pines, the GPS turned us right onto a packed clay lane labeled Toronto Road. Four minutes later we were back on asphalt and as the road swung right again toward a crossroad, a pleasant female voice announced that we had reached our destination. I checked the mirrors for traffic and, seeing none, stopped in the middle of the intersection. Straight ahead, another dirt lane passed a simple gray vinyl home. Its twin stood nestled against a row of blue spruce around the turn to our right. Behind us, what looked like metal grain silos pressed against the edge of a recently harvested field of wheat.

  “This is it?” Grace muttered. “Where’s the town?”

  I looped the Prius in a slow, silent turn in the intersection, kicking myself mentally for yielding to my intuition.

  “We passed a group of houses on a little side drive about a quarter mile back,” I muttered. “Maybe that was it.” We started back the way we had come.

  The road sign beside the cluster of homes identified them as “Bubbling Brook Cottages,” all identical yellow squares with white porches, white window frames, and window boxes overflowing with candy-striped periwinkle. A middle-aged man wearing a sleeveless undershirt marched behind a gas mower across a postage stamp lawn that fronted the second house. I pulled into the drive, waited for him to kill the motor, and asked if this was the town of Toronto.

  He chuckled and wiped his hands against the hips of his denim shorts. “There’s really no town,” he said with the accent of a Maine fisherman. He glanced back through the trees in the direction of the storage bins. “But everything ‘round where the road turns there has a Toronto mailing address. What’re ya looking fer?”

  “Someone named Robert Johnson. We had a Toronto address for him, but no house number.”

  He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. “Not a name I know. No one in the cottages here by that name. But ya might want to check up at the Red Rock Cottages and Campground. People come and go there, and we don’t make much of an effort to keep track of them.”

  “And where are the Red Rock Cottages?”

  He waved toward the bins. “Go back the way you came, but when the road turns, ya keep on going straight ahead. It’s down a way on your right. In fact, the road ends there. You’ll be drivin’ right into it.”

  We did drive straight into it—another collection of small frame cottages scattered around a football field-sized stretch of worn lawn set up to accommodate campers and RVs. A square, metal-roofed building served as reception and general store. A cheerful, ruddy-faced woman with henna tinted hair and a short, quilted jacket greeted us as we pushed through the screen door.

  “Welcome to Red Rock,” she called from behind a shop counter. “Are you the Pattersons?”

  “No. I’m sorry, we’re not,” Grace answered.

  “Oh, my mistake” she apologized, hurrying around the end of the counter. “We’re expecting a couple named Patterson for the week. I thought you must be them.”

  “We’re looking for someone named Robert Johnson,” Grace said. “We thought you might recognize the name.”

  The woman stopped short. “And why might you be looking for Mr. Johnson?” she asked cautiously.

  “You know Mr. Johnson?” I asked.

  “Not really. But he shopped here sometimes. He’s been gone for quite a long time now.”

  “Was he staying in one of your cottages?”

  “No. He leased a home down the road there. The one you passed just before you got here. On the left—back in the trees.”

  “You say he left quite a while ago. Do you know where he went?”

  “I really can’t say. But I believe our Kayla Matters might know. She’s one of our permanent residents. Lives in the last cottage.”

  “Is she in today?”

  “I believe so. I haven’t seen her leave.”

  “Single woman?”

  “Yes. Lives with a huge Newfoundland that’s every bit as big as she is.”

  “By Newfoundland, you mean dog, I assume? Is he friendly?”

  “Very. Unless you threaten Miss Kayla. If she seems to like you, you’re likely to find him on your lap. His name is Franz.”

  “We’ve never actually met Mr. Johnson,” Grace said hesitantly. “Could you describe him to us before we talk to Kayla?”

  “Oh, I can do better than that,” she said, turning back toward the counter. “He was here for one of our Canada Day celebrations. I have a picture of him with Kayla. It’s right here behind the desk.”

  The entire wall behind the reception counter was plastered waist-high to ceiling with photos of smiling guests, some pressed together on the shop’s front porch, others lounging beside tents or RVs. She pointed at a picture of a young, round-faced woman with heavy-rimmed glasses and shoulder length blond hair. Beside her stood an older man of similar height, also wearing rimmed glasses.

  “That’s Mr. Johnson,” she said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” I muttered. “Do you mind?” I held up my phone.

  She stepped to the side. “Feel free,” she said.

  I snapping a quick picture.

  “Someone you know?” Grace asked.

  “Someone we both know,” I said.

  27

  We left the Prius in front of the general store and walked the hundred yards to Kayla Matters’ cottage. It displayed the trappings of a longer-term resident—flourishing flowerboxes beneath the windows, these with red and pink begonias. A walk lined with carefully pruned roses, and an ancient metal pushcart sitting beside the path with its own potted display of three shades of hibiscus.

  “I didn’t recognize the man in the picture,” Grace said when out of earshot of the shop.

  “You’ve probably never met. But it’s a good picture of him.”

  “Okay, smartass,” she grumbled. “Are you going to let me in on your little secret before we talk to this woman?”

  “If Kayla Matters is in, I’ll let her do the honors,” I said, enjoying the few moments of suspense.

  Our rap on the door was answered by a rumbling woof that caused us to exchange a quick glance and reflexively measure the distance back to the car.

  “Franz!” a soprano voice commanded. “Behave!”

  The woman who opened the door also looked just like her picture, but had since had her hair trimmed midway up her neck. Her smile was comfortable enough to show that Islanders weren’t naturally suspicious of people who showed up unexpectedly. I wondered if she had already heard from the check-in desk.

  “Miss Matters?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “We hope so. If you have a few minutes, we wondered if you could visit with us about Robert Johnson.”

  Her smile’s quick fade told me she hadn’t been forewarned.

  “Did the other man tell you to come talk to me?” she asked. “Has Robert gotten himself into trouble again?”

  “May we come in? I don’t know if he’s in trouble, but you might be able to help us with a couple of questions.”

  She stepped hesitantly aside. I followed Grace into a small living room.

  The tidiness of the cottage’s front garden was poor preparation for the inner chaos. I guessed the rules at Red Rock Cottages required neat exteriors but exercised no control over what happened inside. The house appeared to have only three rooms: a living room separated from a tiny kitchen by a breakfast bar and a closed door to the right that must be a bedroom.

  The back wall of the main room was hidden by a full-length desk topped by ceiling-high bookcases. Loosely piled stacks of hard-cover volumes, seashells, framed photos, and a collection of what looked like miniature English cottages covered every inch of shelving. Stacks of paper, folders, and notebooks smothered the desktop and flowed over onto stuffed cardboard boxes beside a rolling chair.

  A plastic laundry basket bulged with unfolded clothes at one end of a long sofa, its contents cascading across the green polyester cushions. Beneath a gabardine overcoat, knitted scarf, and gloves I could see the rough outline of the room’s only easy chair. Most of the space between sofa and chair was the domain of what looked half dog, half bear. He stood at full attention as we entered, studying us with intense black eyes.

  “Don’t mind Franz,” Kayla said, lifting the coat from the chair and tossing it onto a stool by the breakfast bar. She left the scarf and hat in place. “One of you sit here. I’ll get this laundry cleared away.” She scooped the clothing from the couch, pressed it into the basket, and dropped the hamper onto the floor beside the rolled sofa arm.

  Grace accepted the chair and Kayla beckoned me to one end of the couch, settling onto the other.

  “Don’t mind the clutter,” she apologized, glancing around uneasily. “I’m a writer. They tell me that gives me permission to be messy.”

  I thought of Josh Lauderdale’s disaster of an apartment.

  “Is that how you connected with Robert Johnson?” I asked, seeing Grace’s face light with understanding.

  “Didn’t the other man tell you? I thought you must be here because of what I told him.”

  “You mean Mr. Lesher? We actually haven’t spoken to him. Unfortunately, he passed away on his way back to his home in Missouri. We’re partly following up on his death.”

  Kayla’s face paled. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Robert wasn’t involved, was he? I don’t know how he could have known Mr. Lesher had even been here. I decided not to tell him.”

  “I don’t think there was any connection,” I assured her. “Emmett died in the Chicago airport of what appears to have been a heart attack.”

  “He did drink a great deal,” Kayla murmured. “He wasn’t exactly drunk when he was here. But he certainly had fortified himself for the visit.”

  “And why did he say he’d come?”

  She looked suspiciously over the top of her round glasses, first at me, then at Grace, and finally down at the black hairy mass that lay a few feet in front of us.

  “You don’t know? Might I ask who you are and why you have come to see me?”

  Grace broke in, her eyes on the massive dog. “We’re law enforcement officers from Crayton, Missouri,” she explained, holding up the leather folder with her police shield. “The publisher of our local newspaper died mysteriously just over a week ago. We’re investigating two stories he was planning to run that looked like they may stir up some controversy around town.” As she slipped the badge back into her pocket, she leaned slightly forward and pulled the knit hat from beneath one hip.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kayla murmured again, reaching to take the cap.

  “Mr. Lesher was following up on one of those stories,” Grace continued. “Notes we found with his body pointed us to Toronto, Prince Edward Island, and to a Robert Johnson. The lady in the shop when we arrived here suggested we talk to you.”

  The woman lifted her face to peer at Grace through her lenses.

  “Have you talked to the local authorities?”

  “No. We really aren’t certain what we’re looking for. We didn’t want to bother the police until we knew if there was reason.”

  “You don’t know what Mr. Lesher’s story was about?”

  “I think we’re starting to have an idea,” I said. “The nephew of the publisher who died is also an aspiring writer. He and his uncle had been having a disagreement about the value of the services being provided to the nephew by a recent resident of our community. An Austin Elliot. Does that name ring a bell?”

  She shook her head.

  I showed her the picture I had just snapped with my phone. “Is this Mr. Johnson?”

  This time she nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing.

  “Well, this is Austin Elliot as well.”

  Kayla Matters slumped forward on the sofa “You say you’re from some place in Missouri in the U.S.? Is it near Hulsey?”

  “Very near.”

  The woman’s forehead creased with concern. “I think it will help you to know what I told Mr. Lesher,” she said.

  28

  “My first contact with Robert was by email,” Kayla explained, urging the Newfoundland to move closer beside her knee where she buried a hand in the thick hair of his neck and scratched while she spoke. “It was in response to an ad offering new writers assistance with editing—but more importantly to me, with getting our work published and in front of TV and film producers. His service was called NewWave Media. When he responded, he gave me contact information for two or three other authors who were working with him. I contacted them. They seemed pleased with his services. So I signed on.”

  “These other writers. . .” Grace asked. “Did you speak to any of them or just correspond by email?”

  Kayla smiled thinly. “I know where you’re going with this, and you’re right. I wasn’t careful enough. I just exchanged email messages with them.”

 

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