But it wouldn't take two weeks. Within twenty-four hours of his arrival, word went around the island that a strange guy was in town, asking questions about Leonard Brookstein. Instinctively, collectively, the islanders clammed up. Felicia Torrez, Grace and Lenny's cook up at the Cliff Road estate, now worked at Company of the Cauldron, the only high-end restaurant that catered to locals outside of the summer months. Mitch went to find her there.
"I'm trying to get a clearer picture of the events in the days leading up to the storm, back in the summer of 2009. You were living at the Brooksteins' home at that time?"
Silence.
"How long had you been in their employ?"
More silence.
"Look, ma'am, this is not an official investigation, okay? You don't need to be nervous. Did you notice any tension among any of the houseguests that particular weekend?"
At first he thought she had poor English. Then he wondered if she was mute, or deaf, or both. Whatever it was, Felicia was about as forthcoming as a clam that had swallowed some Superglue. Mitch tried the housekeeper, the maid, the gardener. It was always the same story.
"I don't remember."
"I didn't see anything."
"I did my job and went home."
Tomorrow he would head down to the harbor and talk to the fishermen. Some of them must have been out on the water that day. But he didn't hold out much hope. It's like they're all part of some secret club, like the Masons or something. But it made no sense. Lenny Brookstein was already dead. What did they think they were protecting him from?
HANNAH COFFIN CALLED TO HER HUSBAND.
"Tristram! Come see this."
"In a minute."
The Coffins worked at the Wauwinet Hotel, a five-star retreat in one of the quietest, least-populated parts of the island. Like all the big hotels, they were closed through the spring months, but kept a skeleton staff to work on maintenance and repairs. Hannah and her husband acted as caretakers, overseeing the off-season staff. It was a job with a lot of down-time, which Tristram Coffin spent tinkering with his Ducati motorbike, and Hannah spent watching daytime television.
"Tristram!"
"I'm busy, honey." Tristram Coffin sighed. Just buy the damn earrings already, or the super-duper potato peeler, or the Greatest Hits of Neil Diamond, or whatever it is they're selling! You don't need my opinion.
"It's important. Come on in here."
Reluctantly, he put down his wrench and wandered into the living room of their modest ground-floor apartment. As usual, the television was on.
"Do you remember that guy?"
Hannah pointed at the screen. A man was being interviewed about Maria Preston's murder. The story was getting juicier by the day. It now looked as if the husband had done it, hired a Mob hit man to kill his wife because he suspected her of having an affair. Hannah Coffin was particularly interested in the murder because Maria Preston had stayed at the Wauwinet once.
Tristram studied the man's face.
"He looks familiar."
"He is familiar!" said Hannah triumphantly. "Where's that cop staying? The one that's been asking all the questions about Lenny Brookstein?"
"Union Street. Why?"
"I'm gonna call him, that's why."
Tristram looked disapproving. "Come on, honey. You don't want to get involved."
"Oh yes I do." Heaving her two-hundred-pound frame up off the couch, Hannah lumbered toward the phone. "I know where I've seen that guy before. And when."
"ARE YOU SURE?"
Mitch felt like pinching himself. If he weren't scared of putting his back out, he'd have picked Hannah Coffin up in his arms and kissed her.
"One hundred percent. They checked in here together. It was the day of the storm. Him and Maria Preston."
"And they stayed..."
"All afternoon, like I told you. I'll write it down for you if you like. Make a statement. He was on TV, acting like he hardly knew her. But he knew her all right. Intimately, if you know what I'm saying."
Mitch knew what she was saying. He was due at the harbor in half an hour, but this called for a change of plans. He headed for the airport.
NANTUCKET AIRPORT WAS LITTLE MORE THAN a shed, a simple L-shaped shingle structure with a pitched roof, one-half of which was designated "Departures" and the other half "Arrivals." As single-and twin-engine Cessnas landed, passengers got out and helped the pilot unload luggage onto the tarmac. In the departure lounge, "security" consisted of a gray-bearded old man named Joe who glanced at the locals' bags before waving them through with a cheery smile and a "See you at the Improv Friday night. Baptist church, don't be late now."
Mitch marched up to the desk of Cape Air.
"I'd like to see your passenger records, please. I'm interested in all flights in and out of the island on June twelfth, last year."
The girl at the desk rolled her eyes. "And you are?"
"Police."
"Darlene?" she called over her shoulder. "I got another one here. Wants those June twelfth records. Can you take him?"
An old woman in a tweed skirt emerged from the office. She wore her snow-white hair tied back in a neat bun, and a pair of pince-nez glasses perched on the end of her nose, like Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother.
Mitch looked puzzled. "Another one? Has someone else been asking to look at your passenger lists?"
"They have indeed. Darlene Winter." She shook Mitch's big, bear-like hand with her thin, wrinkled one. "You policemen are like buses. Never there when you need one, then suddenly you all show up at once. Come on back."