Murdered. By a woman.
That part Chase found entirely unsurprising.
He wondered who she was, what could have ignited an anger so white-hot it had driven her to plunge a knife into his brothers chest. Oh, he could make an educated guess. An affair turned sour. Jealousy over some new mistress. The inevitable abandonment. And then rage, at being used, at being lied to, a rage that would have overwhelmed all sense of logic or self-preservation. Chase could sketch in the whole scenario. He could even picture the woman, a woman like all the others whod drifted through Richards life. Shed be attractive, of course. Richard would insist on that much. But thered be something a little desperate about her. Perhaps her laugh would be too loud or her smile too automatic, or the lines around her eyes would reveal a woman on the downhill slide. Yes, he could see the woman clearly, and the image stirred both pity and repulsion.
And rage. Whatever resentment he still bore Richard, nothing could change the fact they were brothers. Theyd shared the same pool of memories, the same lazy afternoons drifting on the lake, the strolls on the breakwater, the quiet snickerings in the darkness. Their last falling-out had been a serious one, but in the back of his mind Chase had always assumed theyd smooth it over. There was always time to make things right again, to be friends again.
Thats what he had thought until that phone call from Evelyn.
His anger swelled, washed through him like a full-moon tide. Opportunities lost. No more chances to say, I care about you. No more chances to say, Remember when? The road blurred before him. He blinked and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He drove on, into the morning.
By ten oclock he had reached Bass Harbor. By eleven he was aboard the Jenny B, his face to the wind, his hands clutching the ferry rail. In the distance, Shepherds Island rose in a low green hump in the mist. Jenny Bs bow heaved across the swells and Chase felt that familiar nausea roil his stomach, sour his throat. Always the seasick one, he thought. In a family of sailors, Chase was the landlubber, the son who preferred solid ground beneath his feet. The racing trophies had all gone to Richard. Catboats, sloops, you name the class, Richard had the trophy. And these were the waters where hed honed his skills, tacking, jibbing, shouting out orders. Spinnaker up, spinnaker down. To Chase it had all seemed a bunch of frantic nonsense. And then, thered been that miserable nausea.
Chase inhaled a deep breath of salt air, felt his stomach settle as the Jenny B pulled up to the dock. He returned to the car and waited his turn to drive up the ramp. There were eight cars before him, out-of-state license plates on every one. Half of Massachusetts seemed to come north every summer. You could almost hear the state of Maine groan under the the weight of all those damn cars.
The ferryman waved him forward. Chase put the car in gear and drove up the ramp, onto Shepherds Island.
It amazed him how little the place seemed to change over the years. The same old buildings faced Sea Street: the Island Bakery, the bank, FitzGeralds Café, the five-and-dime, Lappins General Store. A few new names had sprung up in old places. The Vogue Beauty Shop was now Gorhams Books, and Village Hardware had been replaced by Country Antiques and a realty office. Lord, what changes the tourists wrought.
He drove around the corner, up Limerock Street. On his left, housed in the same brick building, was the Island Herald. He wondered if any of it had changed inside. He remembered it well, the decorative tin ceiling, the battered desks, the wall hung with portraits of the publishers, every one a Tremain. He could picture it all, right down to the Remington typewriter on his fathers old desk. Of course, the Remingtons would be long gone. Thered be computers now, sleek and impersonal. Thats how Richard would run the newspaper, anyway. Out with the old, in with the new.
Bring on the next Tremain.
Chase drove on and turned onto Chestnut Hill. Half a mile up, near the highest point on the island, sat the Tremain mansion. A monstrous yellow wedding cake was what it used to remind him of, with its Victorian turrets and gingerbread trim. The house had since been repainted a distinguished gray and white. It seemed tamer now, subdued, a faded beauty. Chase almost preferred the old wedding-cake yellow.
He parked the car, grabbed his suitcase from the trunk and headed up the walkway. Even before hed reached the porch steps the door opened and Evelyn was standing there, waiting for him.
Chase! she cried. Oh, Chase, youre here. Thank God youre here.
At once she fell into his arms. Automatically he held her against him, felt the shuddering of her body, the warmth of her breath against his neck. He let her cling to him as long as she needed to.
At last she pulled away and gazed up at him. Those brilliant green eyes were as startling as ever. Her hair, shoulder length and honey blond, had been swept back into a French braid. Her face was puffy, her nose red and pinched. Shed tried to cover it with makeup. Some sort of pink powder caked her nostril and a streak of mascara had left a dirty shadow on her cheek. He could scarcely believe this was his beautiful sister-in-law. Could it be she truly was in mourning?