“Yes, there were some guests staying here the night Hannah died,” Rose Gilbert said. “Not many. Third floor is still closed for renovations. But I had a pair of honeymooners who never left their room except at mealtime and a retired couple who were into birding. Why do you ask?”
Cabot let Virginia answer the question.
“Cabot is a private investigator,” Virginia said. “I’ve asked him to look into Hannah’s death.”
Rose grunted. “Had a feeling you weren’t satisfied with what those off-island cops told you.”
“I just want a more thorough investigation,” Virginia said.
Rose nodded somberly. “I understand. It was a shock, that’s for sure.”
Rose was a chunky, solidly built woman in her early sixties who had an aging biker babe vibe, complete with a booze-and-cigarettes voice. Her gray hair was cut short and spiky. She wore denim pants and a faded denim shirt accented with a rugged leather vest. Her belt was studded with a lot of metal hardware that matched the metal studs in her ears.
Cabot figured the big four-by-four parked behind the Lost Island B and B belonged to her. Virginia’s sleek little compact was the only other vehicle. He and Virginia were the sole guests that night.
They had eaten dinner at a small café in town – a thick vegetarian stew and rustic, whole-grain bread. He’d ordered a beer. He was not surprised when Virginia had ordered a glass of wine. It went with the sophisticated gallery owner persona.
When they returned to the B and B, Rose invited them to join her in the vintage parlor for a glass of whiskey. She had apologized for the limited selection. “No point stocking the bar, not at this time of year. Not enough guests. I only drink whiskey, so that’s all I can offer.”
The parlor was decorated with an astonishing array of needlework. There were several large, elaborately embroidered scenes hanging on the walls. He was no expert but the quilt on the back of the sofa looked handmade. So did the area rugs. Crocheted doilies covered almost every surface. Rose Gilbert did not look like the arts-and-crafts type. He figured the needlework had probably been left by the former owner of the B and B, Abigail Watkins.
Rose had lowered herself into the big rocking chair on one side of the hearth. Cabot noticed that Virginia chose a chair that was several feet away from the crackling blaze in the fireplace. He understood. He didn’t have a phobia about fire but he sure as hell had a profound respect for its lethal power.
He had selected a large reading chair across from Rose. He stretched out his legs and sipped the whiskey in a casual manner. Long ago he had discovered that people talked more freely to someone who was sitting across from them, sharing a drink.
“Did any of the guests go out that evening?” he asked.
Rose squinted a little, thinking. “They all drove into town for dinner, same as you two did tonight. But they were back here by eight thirty or nine. The older couple had some whiskey with me but the honeymooners went straight upstairs.”
“When did you hear about the fire at Hannah’s place?” Virginia asked.
“Well, I heard the fire sirens much later that night, so I knew something had happened. And then, early the next morning, one of the volunteers who was searching for Hannah stopped by to ask if I had seen her. At first everyone was sure she had died in the fire, but when they didn’t find a body, they hoped she escaped. Figured she might have run into the woods and gotten lost. But her body washed up in one of the coves later that day. That’s when they decided that she had jumped.”
“Did any of your guests show any interest in the situation?” Cabot asked.
“Some.” Rose rocked slowly in her chair. “They were curious but not overly concerned. None of them had ever met Hannah. They all left on the afternoon ferry that day.”
“Is there any chance one of your guests left the B and B that night and came back without you knowing?” Cabot asked.
Rose peered at him and then looked at Virginia. “You think someone set fire to Hannah’s cabin and then pushed her off that cliff?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Virginia admitted. “That’s why I hired an investigator.”
Cabot waited for Rose to come to a decision. Eventually she turned back to him, shaking her head.
“Why would anyone want to kill Hannah Brewster?” Rose asked. “She was crazy but she was harmless.”
“I’m trying to eliminate possibilities,” Cabot said.
Rose exhaled heavily, drank a little whiskey and rocked some more. “I go to bed early but it’s real quiet around here at night. Almost no traffic, not at this time of year. I’m pretty sure I would have heard someone leave. The parking area out back is covered in gravel and so is the driveway. A car, even one with a quiet engine, would have made some noise. And anyone trying to drive would have had to use headlights. No streetlamps on the island.”
Virginia looked at Cabot. “If there was a killer, he would have had to use a car. I can’t see anyone walking all the way out to Hannah’s cabin, certainly not at night.”
“Especially if he was carrying a large container of accelerant,” Cabot added.
Rose eyed Cabot. “What makes you think Hannah Brewster might have been murdered?”
“If she was murdered,” Cabot said carefully, “there’s a chance that the killing was linked to something that happened a long time ago. Hannah Brewster was once in a cult that was operated by a guy who used fire to get rid of evidence and murder several people.”
“Oh, shit,” Rose muttered. She turned and looked into the fire on the hearth. “I was afraid you were going to mention that cult business.”
Virginia tightened her grip on the glass of whiskey. “Hannah told you about her time in a cult?”
“No.” Rose did not take her attention off the fire. “I didn’t know Hannah Brewster well. I don’t think anyone here on the island did. Also, I’m a newcomer here, so the locals still consider me an outsider. But people talk, just like they do in any small community. After Hannah jumped, a lot of people said that she had always been a little mentally unbalanced. They mentioned that she had once joined a cult.”
“Abigail Watkins, the woman who owned this place before you bought it, was in the same cult,” Virginia said. “That’s why Hannah moved here to Lost Island in the first place. She wanted to be close to someone who had shared the trauma in her past.”
“Yeah, heard something about that, too.” Rose rocked gently. “I can tell you that there was a lot of speculation that Hannah and Abigail were both suffering from that PTSD thing.”
“Virginia mentioned that there is another B and B open at this time of year,” Cabot said.
“That’s right,” Rose said. “Barney Ricks and Dylan Crane have a place in town, the Harbor Inn. I understand they keep it open most of the year, but they were closed that whole week for some remodeling.”
Virginia sat quietly, her expression bleak. Cabot wanted to offer some comfort but there was nothing he could say that would give her cause for optimism. The odds were very, very good that they were chasing a shadow.
He knew all about chasing shadows. He and Anson and Max and Jack had spent years doing just that. The thing about shadow chasing was that you had to keep going until you were sure there was nothing there to catch.