The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“I plan on interviewing Barnaby Durrand tomorrow,” he said, by way of concession.

Shipka’s brows rose skeptically. “Good luck with that. He’s in New York.”

“I know. I’m flying out tonight.”

“Well, now. A sign of initiative,” Shipka murmured.

“Go to hell,” Jason returned also under his breath.

Shipka laughed, unoffended, and headed for the kitchen door. Jason followed him, switching on the outside light. The night air smelled of smog and the dank smell of the canal drifting from the back of the house.

As Shipka stepped out into the artificial yellow haze, he said, “One other thing. Just a… heads-up. You know who also used to party with that arty-farty crowd? Detective Gil Hickok at LAPD.”

Chapter Eight

One little thing Jason failed to take into account.

The Durrands’ upstate family estate was way upstate. As in Jefferson County upstate. On Camden Island in the St. Lawrence River, to be precise—and the only way to get there was by boat.

Meaning a private boat rental. Not a ferry. Once upon a time there had been ferry service to the island, but that was one hell of a long time ago, and since only private residences and a few vacation cottages remained on the island, who needed ferry service anyway? Anyone who could afford to live on an island could afford their own boat.

This time of year there wasn’t even, at least officially, water-taxi service. Though once Jason had offered his ID—the “Big Initials” as Gil Hickok once joked—the owner of Seaport Sloops agreed to throw in a complimentary boat ride on the even off-season gulp-inducing cottage rental rate.

Jason wasn’t going to argue. It had been eight hours from LAX to ART, and he had not managed to sleep at all on the plane—on top of not sleeping the night before. It had taken practically as long to arrange for the car rental as to drive from Watertown to Cape Vincent, and he’d already lost three hours traveling west to east. By the time he arrived at the boat rental facility, he was tired, ever so slightly jetlagged, and—as it was only lunchtime—still facing a full day’s work.

There was no general store—or any store—on the island. At the helpful reminder of Mrs. Seaport Sloops, he stocked up on enough groceries to see him through lunch, dinner, and a possible breakfast: a small bag of freshly ground coffee, a pint of milk, a couple of cans of soup, a package of dubious-looking mini “blueberry” muffins, and a frozen beef stroganoff dinner.

“The FBI!” Mrs. Seaport Sloops beamed, ringing up Jason’s purchases. She was a medium-sized woman with frizzy brown hair and purple fingernails as long and curving as a storybook Chinese mandarin. “I guess you can’t tell us what you’re here for?”

“Just routine follow-up stuff.”

She laughed. “But routine follow-up on what stuff?”

Jason was amused at her unashamed curiosity but shook his head.

She was unfazed. “Taxes, I bet. That’s what it usually is with those folks.”

“Which folks?”

“Island folks.” She finished bagging his groceries. “Rich folks. I sure hope you don’t get seasick. That water’s rough today. Beautiful weather though.”

Jason glanced out the window at the cold and drizzling day. “Is it?”

“Sure. We’re having a warm spell. It was snowing last week. You want to add some Dramamine to your groceries?”

“I don’t get seasick.”

Which was true, but in any case, the boat ride across to the island, though wet and cold, was quick.

Mr. Seaport Sloops—or Bram, as he instructed Jason to call him—was tall, wiry and talkative. His eyes were gray. His hair too, prematurely so. He offered a quick rundown of the three-mile-long island and its inhabitants without being asked. In fact, shutting him up would have been the challenge.

“You can’t hardly see the house behind the trees and fog, but those chimneys off the port side belong to the Hoveys. They’ve been here the longest. There have been Hoveys for as far back as anyone can remember. It’s just Caroline Hovey now. Caroline Durrand, I should say. She’s been living here since she and the old man separated back in 1980.”

“She lives on the island alone?”

“Sure.” Bram’s tone was dry. “All on her own. Not counting the cook, the housekeeper, the gardener-chauffeur, and two maids.”

“That’s a lot of servants for one little old lady,” Jason said, as if he’d never heard of such a thing as household staff.