Read Online Clammed Up by Barbara Ross - Free Book Online Page A

though it was tough to carry his bodybuilder muscles. Both were dressed in dark slacks, white shirts, sports jackets, and boring ties. They had on ugly cop shoes, and I could tell just by looking that Detective Flynn had been out on Morrow Island while Binder had stayed in town. Flynn had a tiny patch of wet sand clinging to the top of the rubber sole of his right shoe where it met the leather upper.
    “I thought you’d call me down to the station when you were ready for me.”
    “We needed the walk,” Binder said.
    “Coffee?”
    “No thanks.” He hesitated. “Unless you want some.” I didn’t, but they looked like they could use an afternoon pick-me-up, so I went to the kitchen and brewed a pot. My mother always had some store-bought cookies around “for Page,” as she said, as if the nine-year-old in our lives was the only one who ate them. I put a plate of cookies next to the coffee mugs on a tray.
    “Thanks,” Binder said when I returned to the porch.
    “No problem. What else can I do for you?”
    “You can take us through yesterday. Again,” Flynn answered.
    So I did.
    Their questions were more specific. They’d obviously gathered a lot of information since our interview the day before. Did the bride seem hungover or maybe even still drunk? The groom? Any of the attendants?
    I answered honestly. “No.”
    I was aware of Sonny down on the lawn. I couldn’t see him, but caught glimpses of the tops of window frames gliding past as he went back and forth to the garage. I was sure he was eavesdropping, though he, like the cops, had heard it all before.
    “I know this is difficult, Ms. Snowden. But before you opened the door to Windsholme did anyone, anyone at all, give you the slightest indication they knew what was behind it?”
    I replayed the horrible discovery in my mind. “No one.”
    “Well, you let us know if you remember anything else.” Binder switched subjects. “I understand Christopher Durand worked on the island this spring.” I nodded and he continued. “What did he do for you there?”
    “I wasn’t on the island everyday. Etienne Martineau or my brother-in-law Sonny Ramsey can be more specific, but generally . . .” I went through the litany of opening-up chores—clearing brush, raking the beach, repairing winter damage to the buildings and dock, bringing out the picnic tables and other furniture. It was three weeks worth of hard work for three men. “He also painted a couple rooms for me in Windsholme because I was getting ready for this wedding.”
    “Did anyone else work on the island this spring? Or maybe last fall?”
    “The electricians.” I’d forgotten all about them. “I changed the service and had two rooms at Windsholme rewired in May.” I gave the names of the father and son who did the work. Flynn wrote down the information. “Do you think they could have something to do with Ray’s murder?” I couldn’t imagine what. They lived two towns up the coast, in the opposite direction of Ray’s hometown.
    “Just covering our bases,” Flynn answered.
    “Can I ask, did you find anything on the island today?”
    The corners of Binder’s mouth turned up in amusement. “That’s a pretty broad question.”
    “Like a boat? Did you figure out how Ray Wilson got to my island?” Now that I knew Ray was from somewhere nearby and could have gotten himself to the island, I wanted to know how he’d done it.
    Binder’s smile faded. “We didn’t find a boat. But I don’t think that’s meaningful. Wilson could’ve arrived on the island with his killer, who then left with the boat. Or Wilson and his killer could have come to the island in separate boats and Wilson’s was carried out by the tide later. We won’t know with certainty whether Wilson was even alive when he arrived on the island until we get the medical examiner’s full report tomorrow.”
    I tried to picture a killer carrying Ray’s body up the long, steep path from the beach to Windsholme. It seemed