I punched his number into my cell phone. When he answered, his voice croaked and his words were a little slurred. He was either half asleep or drunk or both.
I said, “August, it’s Dixie Hemingway. I’m sorry to call so late, but I thought your mother would want to know. I think I’ve figured out who’s responsible for your stepfather’s death.”
That woke him up. He said, “Excuse me?”
“I know, I’m sure it’s a shock. I found a package of letters that your stepfather wrote. They were stashed away in your mother’s fish tank. I’ve hidden them on Kenny Newman’s boat at Hoppie’s Restaurant. It’s the last place he’d ever think to look for them. In the morning, I’ll turn them over to the police.”
There was a moment of silence. I could hear the wheels spinning in his head.
He said, “That’s interesting. So, you read the letters?”
I said, “Yeah. I did.”
“And what did they say?”
I said, “August, I really can’t tell you. I don’t think it would be right. Once the police have the letters, I’m sure they’ll be very happy to explain everything to you.”
There was a long silence. “Okay. Well, I’ll be sure and tell my mother right away.”
I said, “You do that. I think she’d definitely want to be woken up for this.”
“That’s not a problem. She doesn’t really sleep anymore.”
I nodded. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he wasn’t making that part up. “Well, now you can tell her she’ll be able to rest soon.”
He said, “I will,” and the line went dead.
The bay was calm when I had first arrived, but now the wind had picked up a bit and the houseboat was rolling gently back and forth. I could hear the water lapping up against the sides of the boat, and occasionally a deep, creaking moan rose up from the hull as it nudged up against the edge of the pier. A couple of iron pots hanging from hooks over the wood-burning stove were tapping into one another with sullen, metallic clunks like a retarded cuckoo clock.
The fire had died down, so I got up quickly and threw in a few more pieces of driftwood and crumpled-up newspaper from a pile that Kenny kept next to the cabin door. I wanted to keep it burning.
As I sat back down in the chair, a slow rain began. I could hear it tapping on the metal roof. It started with just a few drops here and there but gradually grew to a steady hiss, like quiet static on a radio. There were two small round windows on both the port and starboard walls, and a flash of headlights moved from one to the other, lighting up the inside of the cabin briefly. I couldn’t hear anything but the rain, so I wasn’t sure if a car had gone by on the road or if someone had just pulled into the parking lot alongside the dock.
My stomach tightened into a knot, and thoughts were bouncing around inside my head like balls in a pinball machine, but I told myself to keep calm. I took a deep breath and allowed my eyes to close for a moment. I tried to imagine my gentle, babbling brook with all its polished pebbles and butterflies flitting about. I tried to see the steps leading down to the water and the flowers gently swaying in the breeze, but then the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the dock broke through the soft hum of the rain, and my eyes shot open.
When the boat tilted slowly to the starboard side there was no doubt. Someone had stepped on board.
My heart started to pound so hard that for a moment I thought I might have a heart attack. I heard footsteps moving slowly across the upper deck as I glanced over at the port side window, but all I could see were tiny reflections of light in the falling rain.
The footsteps stopped for a moment but then crossed directly over my head. There was another pause, and then I knew someone was slowly descending the steps. A shadow appeared in the narrow strip of light under the cabin door directly in front of me.
I moved my hand to the side and slid it down between the cushions of the armchair. It came to rest on the barrel of my Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. I could feel its cold, hard steel on the tips of my fingers.
Closing my eyes again, I took a deep breath. This wasn’t exactly the craziest thing I had ever done, but it was definitely right up there in the top ten. For some reason, though, I felt okay. I thought to myself, No matter what happens, I’ve done the right thing.
I heard the cabin door swing open, and I raised my eyes.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light shining down from the dock, was Mrs. Harwick.
She didn’t see me at first. She fumbled around in the outer pocket of her shoulder bag and then pulled out a small yellow flashlight. When she flicked it on, the light pointed directly at my face. She jumped back, and her hand flew up to her mouth, stifling a scream.
I said, “Mrs. Harwick, it’s Dixie.”
“Oh God! Dixie, you scared me to death. What are you doing here?”
I said, “I brought the letters here to hide them. Didn’t August tell you?”
She put her hand over her heart and tried to regain her breath. “He did. That’s why I’m here.”
“But I told August I would give them to the police in the morning.”
She said, “I know, Dixie, but I came to get them. When the police read those letters, they’ll know why Kenny Newman killed my husband. He wanted revenge, and he wanted money. But I’m worried about you. They already think you and Kenny are lovers. They’ll think you were involved somehow, and I don’t want that. I should hand them over myself.”
I said, “You think it was Kenny?”
She nodded. “I do. I’m sure of it.”
I leaned over and pulled the package out of my backpack and handed it to her.
She held it to her chest. “I’m going to take this to the police right now. The sooner they have it, the better. In the meantime, you should go home. You look like you could use a drink, and it’s late. I don’t think we’re safe here.”
As she turned I said, “Mrs. Harwick. Do you want me to bring Charlotte back home now?”
“Oh, Dixie, I’m really not much of a cat person. Maybe your cat kennel could find a good home for her?”
I nodded mutely. I had more or less expected her to say that, but it still made me a little sad to hear it out loud. Charlotte had really been Mr. Harwick’s cat.
She turned toward the steps, but I stopped her again. “And you knew your husband was Kenny’s father?”
She sighed and looked back at me. “I did. He never told me, but I figured it out long ago.”
I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, and for a second I worried she would actually hear it. I said, “I remember something you told me the first time we ever met. We had walked out to my car, and you were telling me about checking the water in the fish tank. Do you remember? You said fish seem like such strong creatures, but given just the slightest chemical imbalance, they can wind up dead at the bottom of the tank.”
She had an exasperated look on her face. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because when I found that little plastic bottle of butorphanol, which I’m sure has your fingerprints on it, I wondered if you hadn’t planned on killing your husband for a long time.”
Her eyes turned to narrow slits. “How dare you. How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You found your son’s supply of butorphanol, and you took some of it. That’s what he meant when he accused Becca of stealing something from his room.”
Mrs. Harwick leaned against the doorway of the cabin, and I was reminded of that first day I met her, when she stood with her arm on the back of her neck in the doorway of the living room and looked so beautiful and elegant.
“Oh, my,” she said. “You’re such a smart girl, aren’t you? And then what happened?”
I could feel myself trembling, but I held on to the arms of the chair. I didn’t want her to see how terrified I was. “I think Mr. Harwick did tell you he was Kenny’s father. In fact, I think he even told you he was going home to meet with Kenny the night he died, and I think you went home with him. You must have hid upstairs and listened. You heard their entire conversation. You heard your husband say he wanted to give his fortune to Kenny. You heard him say his stepchildren were useless. Then, after Kenny left, you came downstairs and had a drink with your husband. I imagine you might have been arguing about Kenny. At some point, when he wasn’t looking, you poured that vial of butorphanol into his glass.”